Crow

I do not trust my wings 

to lift me.

Perhaps it is why my feet

do not leave this brick.

I am supposed to pull my knees

up, onto me, like a shelf, 

tipping far enough,

beak might break should I lose

wing, and plummet 

six inches to the floor.

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Haunted by Wakefield

Your absence does not Pierce, 

nor ache, as it did.

Raw wounds have, over time,

healed, the rough scars 

interspersed against soft tissue.

I read Hawthorne’s “Wakefield,”

and within, I found a sentence:

“It is perilous to make a chasm in human 

affections; not that they gape so long 

and wide–but so quickly close again!”

I don’t think about you, like I did,
except in quiet moments

like this one. 

I don’t wake to check

for any means of communication:

by phone, email, text message,

the message system of a game 

we played, a letter…

I don’t check to see what time

it is there; 

the timezone difference

doesn’t affect me.

You can deny that this isn’t leaving,

if you like. 

Your promise still lingers,

a pale ghost in my bedroom,

a weight pressed

on the foot of my bed,

which I kick off.

I smudge the room,

and exorcise your worthless word

from the air,

for that is all it is now: air.

You might as well be Wakefield,

that man who sought thrill,

then became thrall, twenty years,

to sickness, in his mind.

Wither away, and may your words

come back to haunt you,

instead of me.

I will heal, 

and think of you

nevermore.

Rabbit to the Stone Wall

Your arrangement of stone, 

still silent,

but today the silence is calming, 

and I must speak to you.

Listen, 

past the stonework

you’ve set in place.

You told me that she was not

worth my trust,

something seemed off. 

She kept invading your mind,

and it bothered you how

I drowned in her words,

revering her advice as if

it were divine.

I questioned the logic in plucking

the arrow from a moral compass,

more outraged at ideology

I thought I could not conceive.

That was the first step back,

to question.

Not long ago, she removed the veil,

eyes burning, features grotesque,

twisted my loyalty to her advantage,

lied to my face, and suspected me.

I spent four days in pain, appetite

missing from my routine, thoughts

constantly thrown 

back to those moments,

the reaction, 

words laced with honey and venom.

Her refutation stuck in my craw,

‘how could you ever think I would

do this?’

I declined such challenge to accuse, 

keeping your silence

as stalwart company.

In the end, the truth was used

only to weigh against,

but I knew exactly 

where I stood,

line drawn between us.

Self-invocation

What perpetuates my faith?

Drawing on what is unseen, comforts

like soaking in sun, 

after illness confined

one to bed for a week. 

I put a crown on reason, left

my intuition a pauper, despaired

each time that tiny voice was right,

displaced its wisdom for a condition

parallel with my malady, 

and discouraged it

from speaking to those robbed

of spiritual awakening. 

I included

myself in that 

ignorant group, 

inclined 

to dissuade the fire from burning

into vivid nightmares, 

and mindless daydream,

unsteered by conscious knowing.

I say all of this to remind you:

I don’t know why I do it, myself.

This voice no longer whispers,

but screams above reason’s cutting

claims,  

stirs those small embers, 

such notion un-predisposed, 

univited, by any calculation, 

to assert that chaos

overrides linear judgements.

I have seen my intuition beat medical

opinion, 

faith removed of religious

practice, feigning casualty at

being questioned. 

Piety is unquestioned when 

the matter is self-belief, 

and to that end, 

we risk challenging

modern mindset: we are nothing, can

become nothing, and will be forgotten 

as quickly. This is a lie.

Despite insecure

claims that tell us not to strive

for the impossible,

we are not chained to

fate. If given foresight,

we are to believe it,

learn not to trust logic 

above self-truth.