It Spoke of Its Broken Bones (poem)

 

 

It Spoke of Its Broken Bones

 

The language master tracing lines of typeface with his finger

The bronze smith’s Victory and Lamentation

Her strength in dry dirt bordered with

Black shadow

All bedlam courses past

She lights her wings unfurl

With an odor of things suspended

Warm stalls imbued with reverent thought of fodder

Thin switches wait to chastise balkers

Rain that falls pursues no purpose

You my utterance unknit

Meek and fearful circumstance

Your sense I take from ink and paper

Cannot exist on any other

Then a neighbor straight as sunlight

Named outright American chimera

With the great events behind indifference

On the soul’s high eve

Traces lines that breathe

 

A venturesome one crept forth

With bottlebrush tail and lowered ears

It spoke

of its broken bones

“But I move myself along;

I do, I move myself along”

I move under a rain of fire

What is the smallest thing that cares

Cares because it can be seen

where the hand comes thundering

 

 

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Night Bird

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(2016, Stephanie Foster)