Swallowed up
in the belly of my bones,
a shy sweetheart, guarded.
Swallowed up
in the belly of my heart,
a promised ark, departed.
Swallowed up
in the belly of the storm,
where it started.
Swallowed up
in the belly of a hawk,
hope, disregarded.
Swallowed up
in the belly of a crow,
the dream, a shell, discarded.
I am naked here,
arms stretched wide.
I’ve removed my apron,
my soles are rooted,
sandals tossed aside—
shaking my papery skins
of ochre, amber, umber,
deep chestnut brown
whistling down
as autumn storms
cause them to do
a little tune,
wild and flush,
like milk, like honey,
like money, or better—
the sound
of the storm-crested
rustling of two.
Before the purpling of the sky,
a Great-tailed Grackle
bemoaned the heat
with open mouth.
He was gone
before the dust storm blew
across the lawn
turning it, and us, ashen.
There were no bells,
no ceremony.
Only this: dead
voices
rising
like motors running
from somewhere in the deep
stirring memories
of my bare feet
in the sand,
my hands lifting
shells from the shore
for a backward listen.
How different it all was back then.
But it wasn’t, was it?
Life has always been
roiling about us
in the mix of the fair
and the foul.
Did we just let
all that darkness take over,
choking everything
in toxic grip?
Did we just ignore it,
hoping the tide would go
just as it came?
Even so,
what I know now
I will not remain
perched to repeat,
she-grackle,
small and brown,
mouth open in the heat,
shaking sand
from my unfolding wings.
Since birds have no sweat glands, we often see Great-tailed Grackles walking about with their mouths open to cool down in the AZ summer heat.