Part Crow

What she does is she collects:

Words- written on the walls-

Ceramic pigs, jewelry, paper clippings,

Birthday cards, and photographs

Clutter the corners of her house

Like sticks do a nest.

Part crow, she'd give away her very wings for

These shiny tokens;

They are symbols, she thinks, of other things,

love.

It's a strange language she speaks,

One of metaphors and exchanges:

A stone for a stone,

A key for a kiss,

Or a live heart for something promised--

Anything less than a live heart makes her despair,

Curl up into the center of her nest and

Bury herself amidst her crocheted pillows

And empty beer cans,

The television humming the grey

Sound of trapped insects.

And she gives so much:

She'd pull her soul out through her

Mouth with pliers if she could,

Disentangle her own heart from the

Mess of organs in her chest

And make it a gift wrapped in

Gauze bows,

Its presence Momentous and Terrifying

on the living room table, and

so heavy it cracks through the wood.

She falls through the sky when she gives up

Her wings.

The cripple whistles through the air

Like a suicidal angel

Landing blackly with a thwack of feathers,

the snap of hollow bone

Out of her mouth slips the

Soul

She's bared so many times;

Its snaky ascent to the sky

As invisible as what she's

Tried so hard to give, and to receive

(2008)