“God gave a loaf to every bird…” ~ Emily Dickinson
When the fever is a dark flower
and the flower will not break, herbalists
come in the night with a bowl of warm water.
On its limpid face, they’ll throw grains
of rice, the white of an egg. O spirits
and your furtive dictation: clouds form,
lines run. I cannot read the language
you harvest, the serifs spiraled into secret
hexes. Who cast the spell I’ve labored under
all this time? My hot pulse beats under
the collarbone. I sleep under the reeling
stars. The sheen of skin blazons the pan.
[LAG-signature date=”02 16 2012″ url=”morningporch.com/2012/02/159122362/”]