Mourning-Song
Above the heart, the
vessel beats,
Like a root, like a limb
Of axe-struck wood. The
weary heart -
Waters red with awful
wisdom -
Struggles on, slow, defeated.
Birds of grief, blue
as ravens,
Batter against the breast-cage
walls.
Sometimes one - stronger,
more desperate -
Seizes the breath and
bursts the throatlock.
Wings unfurling, free,
uncertain,
She opens to infinite sky.