Well versed in deception,
I outgrow and discard
Another skin.

Crow and coyote laugh it off.
But it is serious this time,
And why I am better known from a distance.

It isn’t that the boxes stacked
Behind turning wheel and wall
Are empty. No.

All along, I have believed
In the void concealed.
But this is a lie.

Too free with blood,
I am spread thin,
And fear the growing transparency.

In a cloud-woven coat,
Unpack the boxes,
Begin to discern.

Neglected treasure and the ancestral choir.
Words under snow and the subtly curved bone.
Forgotten birdsong, wind whistle.

Fallen feathers and the loneliness
Of too much flexibility –
Twisted, dust-softened roots.

Driven not by purpose,
But by pain,
Choose a vein to cut, wood to burn.

Naïve, undefended,
The violated and inviolable —
Scar tissue grown coarse, layered thick.

Send it to dancing flame
And watch the dervishes
Spin through bent branches above.

Shedding shadow skin,
At last I grow heavy,
Ripe and sleepy

In late summer sun —
The long-awaited reaping,
And the wind’s return.



About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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