My face is a mirror of the world.
Cracked mirror. Hungry mouth. An empty
kettle on the hearth. A clock ticking
out of sync with heartbeat. Usual
number of portals, apertures of
sound and light. What enters sickens me.
What emanates too often wounding.
There is no accounting for the crimes
of my face. Only the broken-winged songbird
of my regret. She no longer sings.
Her sky is empty, like my face. So
much time on the clock-when does it run out?
My eyes avoid my face in the mirror;
the world circumvents its crimes. Empty
kettle trills 'til its voice sputters out.
I was born to burn, feet on fire, limbs
wands or trees or candles or matchsticks,
the road goes up in flames, brain blazing.
No reason to camouflage; I miss
the colors my skin would turn, the wind
scorching my crust, crackle that escapes
the lips of those who no longer visit.
When no one visits, does the grave mourn?
Sometimes the universe is listening
and delivers what it thinks you want.
Tea leaf fortune tells not the future
but the past. Past I tried to forget.
Past where crows perch on the fence each morning
waiting for me. They never forget my face.
Crows Tell My Fortune by Terry Wolverton | Poetry Reed Diffuser
$15.00Price
Terry Wolverton is the author of thirteen books of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction, including Embers, a novel in poems, and Insurgent Muse, a memoir.
