rüm

what have i, in earth left,
the mewling of cats growing old, bowls of milk,
a downpour claimed,
abandoned by the window nightly,
until welcoming sun stretches forth its hands.
what am i, a superstition stitched
‘neath various riverbeds of remembering
and making sense out of soil patterns.

but i am — crow
scratching at dust my impermanence,
away from shelter, in flight for swathes,
and time, like blankets, smother.

what have i, in earth left,
wasting craven tongues at the onset
of necessity to speak; brave
when bravery is least needed.
but i am not afraid, i must not be afraid,
must i be afraid? my heart, my feathers’ only dark
wait for day’s contrast — i, i, i.

—A. P.

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