Monday, February 18

III. myth

what have we found beneath these boughs
amidst such promises of eternity?
silent, sacred white snow.
she appeared fearful in the milky glow,
but you and i each took her hand.

bandage after bandage...
the thin face, the dopey eyes,
the bloodstain mouth, the long pink cheek
she bit down her cries, and ceased her bleeding,
so she was ours.

time, time! we might
have grown accustomed to her,
her heavy trunk of white, her rosy scent
or what it meant to hold and have.

was it greed, or cheating,
did doubt breed doubt?
what went wrong? beneath these pines
we stand with our tails intertwined,
we wonder what that wail was about.
where was our failure?

a ton of honey and
away she flew,
beak dripping, wing-tips adjusting to the night-air,
pale face framed by pale hair.
sweetening the beads of amber dew.

below, on the ground, you and I,
laughing hesitant,
as if we were new.

this pale stuff- a chill
we shiver in a silver morning,
an end of life, a wife who gave no warning,
curtains torn, scratch marks upon the windowsill.

hold your breath.
her white wings, and mine, and yours
all together now

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