believe this jag-winged majesty
really wants a piece of her small cold life,
godless and cold, and yet it circles her
on shouldery black wings, blacker than dried blood,
now holding still against the sky like a slit
opening into somewhere else, now half-wheeling,
the charred remains of dark thoughts flown...
But not gone. It reappears and shadows her,
calling, calling her quick steps weak, weak,
bored and exposed for those of a woman
trying too hard to get lost in the woods,
clearing her throat as if for company,
snapping twigs, pretending to seek -- to need --
what mitigated solace there may be
in the leatherish creak of new snow.
It's no use. She can't get lost,
can't even fear death with any decency,
seeing there the unmistakable glint
of sun off a window through the landscaped
brace of trees beyond these, these unplanned.
And because beneath her creaking boots
comes the unsoothing hum and wheeze
of not distant traffic, a muffled laughter
at the hungry anachronism overhead.
Oh, she'd like to believe she could die;
it would give her an edge,
a key to open the steely manmade gate
of reason's garden, let her into the wilderness
of fear and belief, where she could really freeze
to death and be eaten quickly by a big
black bird, and die consciously in the snow,
which would begin to feel delicious, like
a slow transfusion of warm sake,
and to taste unspeakably
like the saliva of a hungry god.
by J. Allyn
J. Allyn Rosser Page
Wired for Books
© 1999 J. Allyn Rosser
Copyright © 1999 Ohio University