My arms are a field of burial mounds

My arms are a field of burial mounds

A Poem by wood grain

Owl-fingered, greasy

Beaked, my feet are

Spools of blue ribbon,

My feet and hands visceral

Cells, stone-flesh, semi-

Translucent, my hips

Soft white hills. Razor blade cracking

On snags of weedy flight

Feathers, my arms are a field of burial mounds,

Scarred earth tracing the lines where like a God I plucked my quills,

Now poking through anyway.

© 2014 wood grain


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Added on April 10, 2014
Last Updated on April 10, 2014
Tags: owl, bird, self reflections, portland, oregon, pdx, self harm, scars, growth, change, life, embracing self, individualism