May 6, 2009 0
by Jane Blue first published in Poetry Now I feel peeled, coffin-ripped. The worms of night sated now. My spectacled eyes tender as incubated babes. Elms hang infant leaves like minuscule laundry. At a bus stop, a bird walks high in a tree's new fringe, pecking, sashaying up the limb skyward. It pauses to call "chip-chip" into the Morse-code morning. Soon, someone replies, "chip-chip." The bird saunters out on the attenuating branch, then steps into air. What soldier, what saint will I be in this new life?