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Jessi Hanson Poem
Bleeding Paloma
He sees her in the tree, high up
Hidden among the mango leaves
Her egg-shell coloring peer through
The dark green. He scatters the
Seeds upon the earth and waits
Until she flitters down, at first
Untrusting the paloma walks.
She notices him as she feeds,
But she does not flee. He is
A kind child. A good heart
He convinces her and lulls hers
Near with more in his palms
Open she moves in sway and
He takes her up as she feeds
On his seeds.
He caresses her plums, fingers
Beneath her light wings folded
Back to her side. And her
Eyes study him, this natural
Child, curious face and smiling.
He suddenly takes her in his
Tight grasp, she struggles to
Ease out. He holds her against the
Bare earth and places a
Rock on one of her winds
To Keep her there. He watches her,
Walks away for a bit and then
Comes back with a new face
Of deceit and mischievous coals
Kindling unsafe thoughts and
Indifference to her naïve cooing.
He bends over her and pulls out a machete.
First he picks at her free wing with it.
And then he brings it over his shoulder and
It swings into to her, that dull
Blade that makes him grin at his
Experiment. The little boy watches the
Bird flail to the ending tired agony
And shock and betrayal and she is
Wounded. Her wing barely attached
Still to its center. He sets the rock aside and
Uses his toes to move her around,
To examine the handy work. A voice
Calls him, and he scanters away;
A new distraction to please him.
The bird weakly flails on the earth, like
Shocks of movement and then silence
And then horrid shaking. Feathers litter
The bare earth.
The paloma lies in the reddening dirt.
Copyright © Jessi Hanson | Year Posted 2011
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Details |
Jessi Hanson Poem
Gray Words
With those lips the multitudes
Speak, giggle, and grin affectionate
Phonemes that silently nail into
Our flesh which moves with
Starving thirst for caressing, or any
Sign of belonging to a single
Beating, pulsing like turbulent
Waves that consume us and
Breathe cool upon a smoldering
Aching which has kissed my lips,
Far traveled, far stolen
Too long amongst the unquenched;
There exist too many dark words
Shaded in
Brilliance, like gleaming paint, it
Chipped away when the rains and
Sun beat down, that Maternal life
In which we lay.
Lips lingering between the obscure and
Gleam the hopes of girls whose
Virgin pages burn on top
The still blue ambers among the
Ashen words spoken with
Lips cracked at their center.
Why do we, like children,
Foresee paths not yet set,
The dank woods that we lost
Ourselves in,
But which open to Meadow;
With newly grasses that sway
Even in the rains, and the winds
And touch warmly the sky.
Oh, they are simple words, spoken
Thoughtlessly in multitudes
Painted too often gray, staining burnt
Their owners’ mouths to taste of ash.
No, I seek the meadow. I seek
With my hands among the covers.
With my lips, I find you I
Whisper their movement,
To you at the good dawn.
Copyright © Jessi Hanson | Year Posted 2011
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