by Marjorie Maddox
A “thing,” perhaps,
and fowl,
but bloody-
plucked,
dipped in disease
and plummeting,
the sky-high yours/mine
violently de-plumed,
bald as a vulture,
fickle flight undone
in this freefall frenzy of fear
to doom
become dust
become
what we don’t know
become
before
and void
become dark, become
the dawn crack
of Eden on replay
and maybe—hope against hope—
become
the “warm breasts, bright wings”
of Spirit hovering,
warming,
readying its weary-
world nest
once-again
for wings.
Print by jolieguillebeau |
A “thing,” perhaps,
and fowl,
but bloody-
plucked,
dipped in disease
and plummeting,
the sky-high yours/mine
violently de-plumed,
bald as a vulture,
fickle flight undone
in this freefall frenzy of fear
to doom
become dust
become
what we don’t know
become
before
and void
become dark, become
the dawn crack
of Eden on replay
and maybe—hope against hope—
become
the “warm breasts, bright wings”
of Spirit hovering,
warming,
readying its weary-
world nest
once-again
for wings.
Marjorie Maddox has published 11 collections of poetry, a short story collection, an anthology (co-editor), and 4 children's books.
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