04-16-2016, 01:47 AM
Of Cancer and Cranes
She would stand in profile
before a mirror. Thin
as a sheet of paper
creased by an invisible hand.
Folds within folds,
until words took flight
from the hollow
of her throat. Tiny birds,
escaping language
or symbol, expressed
in a dry cough. She compressed
to her final shape,
and I was told that she would fly
too, that wings had been pressed
into her flesh.
So I waited,
under the cold razor
of sun and sky,
waited for her to open
and explain
the meaning
of this design.
She would stand in profile
before a mirror. Thin
as a sheet of paper
creased by an invisible hand.
Folds within folds,
until words took flight
from the hollow
of her throat. Tiny birds,
escaping language
or symbol, expressed
in a dry cough. She compressed
to her final shape,
and I was told that she would fly
too, that wings had been pressed
into her flesh.
So I waited,
under the cold razor
of sun and sky,
waited for her to open
and explain
the meaning
of this design.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson