Tale

The book say go. Go feed
the kingbird a rotten paste
of honey and hair grease. Marinate
on fences all day everyday
the book say. Take off through
fields so fast black wings sprout

from your shoulder blades.
Think you're something
else. The book say fly too high,
say come back down with
bloody knobs and feathers
hanging low, poor wilted
thing. Listen, the book say

sleep upon landing. Sleep
without transgression, sleep
the sleep of babes. Book say
nestle deep as your scent is loosed,
other animals drawing near
with wagging tongues.

Copyright © 2009 Anna Lowe All rights reserved
from Green Mountains Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission