poetryrepairs 16,11:121

RUTH ASCH : Adage
RUTH ASCH : Crows' Feet

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RUTH ASCH
Adage

'A wet bird never flies at night' Dad would intone gnomically, solemnized the light thought and the laughter. I nodded, credulous rainy walks around the block craned my neck to the dark nets of trees pooled in streetlight - seeking clots of draggled plumage, claws gripping soaked wood; mused on flightless birds, how light reflected on wet feathers: flat gleams like a raincoat? beaded speckles as on starlings, or watered silk? Saw the imperious owl shoot sequins from wide-swirled wing, night-tempered. My plumes grew on stage; escape in the currents of a song, uplift on breath of a crowd, at dusk we soared. Souvenirs of sleep: pinions on my shoulders cremated by the morning rays. Absurd, to think of a bird. Mum laughed: such credulity! Life rained; left me heavy, numb, bereft. In bedraggled gladrags I stand in a net and sing. But we shall not ride wings - a wet bird never flies at night.

poetryrepairs #230 16,11:121





RUTH ASCH
Crows' feet 

The crows are planting with their claws, meticulously; dig through earthliness tendrils like iron threads, finely-drawn, limp, mortal strong. Bide patiently years' spending then they shall pluck almonds of my regard: ribbed and warm, bitter-sweet, in mellow haze of ripeness: tender morsels, for avine hoods. Slowly, harvest comes. They do not strike; natural as babes they grope and grip, pull their feathered weight - of hollow structure, to protect a heart and guide a flight; of fluttering pulse, internal furnace, beady eyes, scarlet appetite and pure blue rapture; of downy dark intimacy, slashed-silken proud-lined pinion and the heavy point, the hook - death-whetted beak. Yes, they tug upon us: desire, fear, design - 'till the pale and black-rushed brinks of pools are sparse and sagging; the clutch of ghostly burdens print talons round my gaze with corvine curves, soft and ineffacable.

poetryrepairs #230 16,11:121





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