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  Guttural Sounds (Prose & Poetry)
black crow (1997)

It is not the season for growing,
when the leaves are a distant memory
and cold bites like an unkempt dog.

I watched today
as a crow picked apart the remains
of a squirrel,
beak bloody,
bits of flesh in it's curling claws.

I can forgive you
for many things:
I can forgive the half-truths,
the outright lies,
the small jabs
and the wounds that capsize.
I can forgive
your petty pride
and your grasping for control,
your insecurities,
and your sad, small soul.

I can forgive
your false facade,
your selfishness,
the various states of costumed dress
of your rotten psyche
and your poisoned heart.
I can almost forgive
your undying attempts
to tear me apart.

This is not the season for growing lilies,
fragrant dill, even the houseplants
above the cold windowsill.

But in this season
of white winds and stinging frost
never lost
is the perennial seed,
always sown
always grown,
always blooming in you
like a festering wound.

The noblest plants
keep their seeds to themselves.
Were you a firm and solid bulb
I'd not be harvesting so late,
I'd not have caught
this floating wisp
that blossomed in me,
your hate.

There are many things I could forgive,
but forgiveness comes too late.

Oh, you have punished me well,
these little slap
to the skin,
these little needles reaching in.

Kali, Ceridwen, old Hecate,
let me pluck these bitter weeds:
I do not want
these black, wet seeds,
I do not want
this terminal disease
of which those like he
are made.

Pour forgiveness on me,
with the width of the sea,
with the warmth
of the love that I hold
inside, beside me.
Drench me with fire
and bring with your fury
drought, so these seeds of hatred, ill-sown.

This is no season for growing,
when sickle-blades shine silver
and sharp:
this is the season for reaping
the weeds and the dead crop,
to till the soil
for the spring
of my heart.

I watched today
as a crow picked apart the remains
of a squirrel,
beak bloody,
bits of flesh in it's curling claws.

You have ripped me apart,
but I watched my soul rise, up
to the sky
and kiss the bliss of a cloud.
When I last looked down,
your beak was still bloodstained.

Don't bother with courting:
the flesh under your nails betrays you.

And we squirrels are too busy gathering
in this season,
to be bothered with your black seed.

All content and design © 1997 - 2001 Heather Corinna. All rights reserved.
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