Where blood drips from a forest of ghosts
And it is mine.
Starving, I eat a worm of wood,
Tasting like honey. It burns
Fiery darts into my belly
And Sears my soul with
Something like hope.
And I know that I had
Allowed the killing of my heart,
But living with half a heart
was better than
Dying with a whole one
(and the church said, "amen")
I shake my fist at the stars
"Where were you when
I was sweating great drops of
Blood in my garden"
They had tried to stay awake
But they could not.
And the nightbird comes to carry
Away my remains,
But as he flies, he becomes
A stork carrying
A heart.
(c)Wendie Donahue
published in Skipping Stones 2005
and in Ripples
Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA
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