A try
at raising raven
She grips
the death of the bird lying bent out of shape, on a patch of grassy
root; she has the bird by the wing; it has her by the fingertips; the
wing folds back out as if one half lazarus; she calls it crow but
does not know its proper name. An air, full with vacuum, from taut
brightness of all sun. The feeling like her deep-inside shrill
goddamn Descartes-man. The cloudless sky, tired, languid; the open
sky, the openness around of field, and space for endless traveling
sound that comes in flits & streaks of crisp, broken, horizontal
sheets. She hangs herself. She climbs a partway tree; rests the
broken raven onto a gnarling branch; two wings out for balance;
expedited take-off. She hangs her front half back half over of the
branch; angles from drapery to stiff upper body, knees tucked
slightly inward, rudders; stretches flaps & wings her arms. For
learn to fly, for learn the bird, for fly within the sky,
Whether,
if, might; whether it might. She is trying for a certain noise. The
bones of the thing were already cracked; to the dust of the bones of
the thing. She is testing, for one, a certain sound and, too, a grind
of dust; a strip & slide of what does happen. It means, she
cracks the skull against a root, she smacks the skull against a
cement pavement. she does not do it for discomfort; this comfort; she
rattles wracks & rats the skull; runs rats right thru, flit fast
than said; the crow it twitches tenses; all she only did at first, is
only look at. She cracks bones, shuffles dust, breaks her big bird
test stuff. She cracks more bones, she shuffles dust, she mucks up
big her bird test stuff; patches, smudges of big bird, flatter into a
muck of shuffled dust; desists, interlaced with quiet panic, she
tries to calm the goddamn open sky, it only widens vertigo, as if the
sky at same time, zooms in, & steps mega back. She wishes at this
juncture, near this root & concrete patch, a murder of crows,
like feathers of a bird, was spread, in such an epileptic style, so
she could try, in many times, the many ways a crow’s skull cracks,
the dust grinds bones, the sun gets caught in beads, or twitch, or
flitted feathers. Fatigued with bore, she gets; lands belly first,
nose, forehead, flat on a patch of grassy root. Spreads arms flattens
arms, outwards, flat into the dirt. Stretches legs, pushes toenails,
into topsoil. Forgets her mind of mess of mucky feathers; becomes
instead all twitcher, feeble flap, turtle flipping on its back;
vacillations out of whack,
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