Monologue for Heron as the Poet’s Still Living Mother
— Evelyn Gill
Breast and bone, still with your mother’s eyes; all iron wrought muscled to a perch; one stick standing ankle deep, yet all you see is feather, my anatomy reduced to who you were, once weaving figure-eights around my feet; you ask: why can I not see you? your iridescence? yes, you always filled a room, always a rainbow cut from whoever’s tongue; you ask to be moon & tide yet fail to see how your oil slicks my feather-shine; my bones, built from your scales; I hold you in my beak, toss you, squirm you down my throat; you see my insides now? my muscle, your casting out for light, your bifid tail beating the backside of my ribs; my face droops to the tide, stilted in mud; you thump-thump in my chest; go on, believe I do not know you; but know your receding rips me, keeps you in the dark.
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