What might have been a heart
whose warm outlines were seared
in the clay— What might have
searched through dank underbrush
for a homing beacon, some fingerprint
flecked with gold— But for now you hear
only the naked blade of a voice, keening
among the brambles, rending its hair
and beating its breast in the fetid
air. Doesn’t it sing this way only
because it’s known the difference? Easier
to chide or scold, spurn it and say it reeks
of pure ungratefulness. Who’d want to marry it,
take it to sup at table, to warmth in the bed?
Wings like glass windows whose sections are soldered
cellophane, the yellow hoverfly courts the bloom
on the stalk. Remember it eats of brittle matter
long decayed; but also of pollen, nectar.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.