by Gillian Jerome
You sleep by the river, the boreal
womb, dark under firs.
Branches draw lines, bars for seeing.
Red birch leaves fall like water.
Seeds slit their pods.
when you hum, it is off-key and tuneless.
Fear is absolute. A black horse enters,
beckoning. You refuse to behoove him:
thatís the trick. I wish I knew this.
Blindness has a time, and in it,
a tender clearing. A forest of hemlock
covers your earth.
Dark water rises.
Spirits sleep in the pines. To cross over
becomes tiresome, night after night.
Such small gestures, Lords of the Coming -
a star could strike. A raven
could slip from the sky.
Look at the mouth of the moon opening,
the trail of your pink
& silver feet across the dew.
There, the first sign of obedience
alive in the dark pines, breathing.
The raven ha-caws-
Step into your life.
Gillian Jerome has wheels and wings. Can fly.