Liz Worth - Osso

1.
You were once a hunter,
or so you said on bended knee,
bending me, lips to feathers
the day we found the dead crow
on the doorstep,
halted reincarnation.
You took up a beat to
release the spirit from its bones:
os
osso
ossu.
Its eye an oil painting,
relief realized in rigor mortis.

2.

Walking against the gloat of the wind

you screamed honey in proportion
to an early chill.
In the woods, we found a single white candle.
“Gravespotting,” you said.

Later, we would admit we were not ourselves that day.

3.
Slit the mind,
an indulgent deterioration.
Your age, a monotone horizon.
Me, sober and inadequate,
the strict regimen of solitude –
a faltering ally.
Constantly, you asked,
“is there a gust so strong it could tear the wings off a bird?”

The thrust of the heart, blind on seclusion.