Half-Wishes of the Cockatrice
       

To skim a curdling light
from the blue of dawn,

to slither in the furrow
of a mud-churned wagon rut,

to bellow above warbling
and spit forth, no parched

throat, no red eyes, no dust.
To bless the day without

looking any of them
in the dying canopy dead

but knowing one bald
morning they’ll collapse

in shrieks
with sticks and feathers.

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Copyright © 2022 Cal Freeman All rights reserved
from Poolside at the Dearborn Inn
R&R Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission