Libby Hart-lII

Reel

 

 

Steady of wing come dark-stained words,

the raven knowledge of my ancestors.

 

I remember how the black bird was once white,

but a chattering of misgivings inked him into punishment.

 

Again, the riffling of books in my mind:

a phrase, a seam of memory. All day I wear its hem.

 

I watch night seeping, wait for luminous light—

for its teal edges to become gifted song.

 

Its whistles and crackles

must be answered with a murmur.

 

Aurora’s green, sky-dwellers reeling.

The north is spun.