By B.L. Bruce
This is language
This is a language that chose me,
not I it. And with it, I can tell you,
Here is something beautiful: the jay
shakes the dawn from the blue of its body;
the bright spine of the ridge at first light;
the clefts of the peaches deepening.
On the wind the sound of a lone coyote,
keening, calling the pack home.
Nightfall. The swallows retreat to the barn.
They say sadness is held in the hips,
anger in the mouth. These are the places
I hold you: the pit of my belly, my throat.
And the slow dances of the years,
where do we hold them? In scars that mark
the chapters of our lives, our told stories?
The bats come out in droves.
I feel the knock in my sternum
know this is the delicate cage
that holds my heart.
Photo by Andy Scott via Pexels