Wednesday, May 11, 2005


Black. Clipped. Memory of flesh
heaving to my beak’s yanks

and gashes. Calculated wide
wings once circled an eternal

festival of gore and entrails.
Patient. Deliberate. Men

kill. Ravens fall. Men rise.
We drop. Snatch an ascent

colored crimson. Mud dark
against turquoise sky. Skimming

the end of empires.
Hear me?


Treasure said...


You know you be writing. What's up with the "Blacks" in England? Why they be hatin'?


ruth-e said...

thank you beautiful verse for moving my eyes up from street to sky today...

John K said...

Christina, your words are a revelation. I'm glad your son is doing better. Keep your spirit and fierceness up. I know you will.