Sunday, November 3, 2013

Why I've never written a suicide note

I met the prophet Ted Hughs,
ragged and perched in a cedar tree
feathered in charcoal and ink,

     beak salivating a teetering
     waltz across some silvery branch.
     See the precipice, Sylvia?

There are no ovens here, Ted,
and all I've ever had for paper
are the unravelings of wasps' nests.

     I gather up the flight in my fist
     praying with a stone on the
     tongue and wait, weighted, because

at certain elevation, rocks
have developed a technique
of altaring themselves, ready 

     for whatever sacrifice is offered.
     Ted Hughs pepples the sacred piles 
     of uplifted rubble and lichen.

If he turned his back I might pluck
a pin feather for writing, or 
perhaps for leaping as the crow flies.

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