The
Rook and the Lark
When
we came to mourn,
we
were hooked
claw
and bric-a-brac.
Slack
mouthed with feathers
and
mud we kept fashioning
into
coffins instead of nests.
The
best of our suits drying
on
a line somewhere, where
the
air was sweet with rotted teeth.
Redolent
with graves lined
so
tidy in rows. The bull
has
too many hooves to grind
our
bones. Kept stepping on
our
necks every time we tried
to
sing. The days so short
this
time of year, we couldn't keep
anything
in the ground, but we tried.
Our
tiny books, our pretty sheen.
The
song we swallowed,then let
free,
darkly, among the trees.
Kristy Bowen
