< Issue 10 >
a funeral of Winter
by Mykol Radziszewski
i found her red breast
open, on asphalt altar
penance for my belief
in the Summer of us
my clutch of feathers
and hollow bones tucked
in soft bed of fern and berry
a funeral of Winter
song silent bird
Salal wrapped,
i see her fly through
Spring’s morning sun
picking snails from periwinkles
as she was the morning
i woke tangled up in you
my robin heart hum
open, like all those purple flowers
in the fullness of Sun
i flew straight through you
into the ripening narrative of Earth
the fruit of Autumn, labors,
to tease roots from the clutch of roots
our fruits, rancid in the bloat
of dead bird,
clot against the gloaming
of greens first breath
as if to say
“my, how you’ve grown”
and in this noon of Winter’s last
my Magnolia midwife
pulls the robes of sky
from her tired face
her petals pour laughter
from my ache of you
a funeral of Winter
by Mykol Radziszewski
i found her red breast
open, on asphalt altar
penance for my belief
in the Summer of us
my clutch of feathers
and hollow bones tucked
in soft bed of fern and berry
a funeral of Winter
song silent bird
Salal wrapped,
i see her fly through
Spring’s morning sun
picking snails from periwinkles
as she was the morning
i woke tangled up in you
my robin heart hum
open, like all those purple flowers
in the fullness of Sun
i flew straight through you
into the ripening narrative of Earth
the fruit of Autumn, labors,
to tease roots from the clutch of roots
our fruits, rancid in the bloat
of dead bird,
clot against the gloaming
of greens first breath
as if to say
“my, how you’ve grown”
and in this noon of Winter’s last
my Magnolia midwife
pulls the robes of sky
from her tired face
her petals pour laughter
from my ache of you
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