After the Morris Graves painting
Black bird perched on a black rock
beak wide open
head bent in song
tangled brushstrokes
braid webs, white and yellow
upward to the moon
sound and form collective in song.
But what song is sung?
This painting, this bird, sings to me
from the first moment I see it,
singing to my loneliness in a relationship
with a damaged man,
my despair, to contemplate
a bird singing at night.
Moonlight pregnant with messages
to diminish his voice telling me
I was not worthy or smart
good enough.
Years later I perch on a granite boulder
in the moonlight
sing my joy. (I am a liar)
As if it were that easy
to just hop on that rock
and sing sweetly.
Perhaps that bird sings
to my twelve-year-old self.
My father’s betrayal
laid bare in the dining room
as I watched in the shadows.
Mother, winter coat on
car keys in hand
poised to leave in the moonlight.
Angry at my father–disappointed in my mother
I longed to throw rocks
break glass.
What song does this bird sing in the moonlight?
A song of grace
lifting the weight from my shoulders.
