09/18

bleeding heart dove

o phantom bullet where did you exit me?
all the trees turn into hands reaching
to pull down a curtain. soon it will be night
& i will count street lights & guns.
a dagger floats nearby ready to carve flesh.
fish lay on dinner tables with their eyes
all glossy & afraid. 
i find a stream to look at myself.
if i'm not careful the mark will turn
into a true gash. a wound is often
originated in the mind. that's where it turns red 
& blooms. i have seen deer shot & stumbling.
i have seen boys fall limp in open fields.
a scab forms over the sunset. 
i'm preening myself of saddnesses
& dreaming of the right kind of weapon.
bow & arrow maybe or a spear.
someday, i hope to return as a poet
or at least a diamond. something sturdier.
on the forest floor everything 
is stretching above me. find a berry.
find a grub. whistle to myself. 
ache is spreading across my wings
from the blood mark. soon i will nestle
in the brush & try to think of nothing
but feathers. feathers falling
from a tree. once, a friend told me
every death becomes one of our feathers.
i tried to count mine but fell asleep.
there must be a tree that grows guns.
o gunpowder. o fire. o ambush.
o man trekking through the wood. 
let me be your omen. 
guard your colors. bleed alone. 

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