Today's poem is by Tara Bray
Calling T. From the Cultural Wasteland
Iím here in the fields where the crows are many and large.
In the present I am inarticulate.
In the tall grass I can look up and feel adrift.
Iím a slow sinner,
sleepy and swarming with both brides and bridegrooms.
Iím akin to the one hyacinth in the bed, malformed and too few-petaled,
a crooked blue; think of an angel, both scalped and crowned,
its heartbeat spilling into the furred soil.
Some days, I am plum skin. So much holed up in a songless mouth.
I know my place. When you say waste, itís like a sigh continuing.
My teachers: the kingletís scarlet sore, so open, like the tulip
that taught me one color; a swab of wind; the fetus, like many moments rivering.
So sure I failed them.
The mind tires, but the perfection of instinct is like the sparrowís crown of white.
Alone in a field, digging out from the self,
no need to usher me to the light. I prefer the slack and aimless willows.
In this field of silence there is a world of coats unbuttoned,
tails blowing behind the crowds of knowing and of not knowing.
I wouldnít care if the hummingbird, the plainer, shadowed one,
drilled its beak into my throat and left it there.
Copyright © 2006 Tara Bray All rights reserved
from The National Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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