Comment on this article

On Ancient Wings

by Andrena Zawinski

The little black grackles keep coming back
    for more.
They pick stale caramel corn from the sack,
them whole, toe-dancing snowdrifts, all bobs
    in the delight
of the find. Even city doves wait their turn
    in the blizzard
of birds, in the yes yes yes of it.

    One flies
a warning, yellow-eyed at my face, as if
    I would
rush her feathers for a spicy hat, her belly
    for a bit
of meat to glaze, breast a bone from which
   to pull a wish.
From where I stand behind the window glass,
    it is only this
upon which I fix my eyes and my desire--

     the wind
along lacy wing bars, early light that flirts
    a wash
across the crown, sheen on bellies and bobs.
                               If these                           
blackbirds survive the cold another morning,
    then so will I.
We have these things that hold us here,
    this watch,
sweet feast, the voiceless scavenging--
    the yes oh yes of it.

Previously published in:  Against Certainty Poets for Peace Anthology, Chapiteau Press


Return to:

[New] [Archives] [Join] [Contact Us] [Poetry in Motion] [Store] [Staff] [Guidelines]