9:4: “Pinion”, by Liz Bourke

9:4: “Pinion”, by Liz Bourke
   Born of dust, we become
   our beginnings: the sweep
   of a feathered wing falling,
   of the deepness in the iris
   of your closing eyes
   like dying love, and breath;
   born of dust, and dreaming.

Born of the thorn in your side
of pain’s prick and mortal blood
and the old red sore you never could
forget: dust under our skins,
earth beneath our hides,
death waiting within us, on the inside.

A dream drawn from hope and lies.
Your wings spread wide,
mantling the brightness in your eyes,
risen beyond our sight.

We the earth shall claim, here in the dust,
as it always has, as it must:
we dream of living forever,
following the falling wing,
swallowed by the sky




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