Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night
Lit Up — April’s Prompt: Inspired Poetry
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.
-T.S. Eliot
The death of the soul hangs from the ledge
of a dusty window labelled “if only”,
its ferocious grip loosened by the gentlest tapping
of jagged nails painted with the letters n o w.
Should you choose to look up in that moment
you’ll see her, the other you, staring back
from the other side
of risk.
If you searched the ground beside her
you’ll see the skin she shed to be there
before you, shriveled and torn. Pieces.
Not forgotten, but unnecessary now.
She stands naked and wet, fully unapologetic
within a carving of her own statue,
an unshivering glow highlighting
an incandescent cloak of freedom.
When she gave up her skin, what remained learnt
to survive the elements without being upswept in the process,
and that skin, like most coverings, was never as precious or fearful
once discarded.
You’ll only be slightly surprised when the wolf shows up.
She’ll claim his mighty flank, clutching his unruly fibers
as he carries her off,
but you’ll hear them.
Dark heralds, streaking warrior howls
across the sky in words
you don’t yet comprehend
as moon devours them both.
I hope this is where you begin
to loosen your grip on your definition of reality,
and start leaving your windows open
on moonless nights
To hear the blackbird sing.
