She who loves creation
has feathers in her hair, donated, dropped,
they whisper against her neck and shoulders.
Unlike me she doesn’t feel a need
to speak or say,
all vision, all witnessing,
wonder softens her face.
She knows where the animals are
In the underbrush; their fluttering hearts,
their ribcages ripe
for other teeth to crush.
She doesn’t flinch and when prompted
will taunt, tenderly,
“You can love the wolf,
its wild quiet paw prints,
its howl reverberating to a distant mate.
But can you also love
the chickens slaughtered
into blood and feathers and bone chips?
Can you also love
the farmer who spends days building
fences and nests, hoping
to protect and provide for the family?
Who is the dreamer
And which dream do you privilege?
What is suffering
and what is survival?”
At dusk she watches silhouettes harden, coalesce
into dark against light, until engulfed into
night shadow.
We will not escape new beginnings
However narrow our vision gets.
No oracle, the plot doesn’t concern her,
the bleeding as blessed as the whole.
The abundance of air creating music enough
for her to dance, now, anywhere.
I know her flesh tastes of mushrooms and salt water
and smoke, served on a rose petal.
She inspires me to burn incantations into bone.
Sometimes when I look at her through the corner of my eye
she is the night sky
scattered with stars.
Look one just went dark.
Can you see?
(Melissa Fritchle 2020)