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

My Review

Would you like to review this Poem?
Login | Register

Request Read Request
Add to Library My Library
Subscribe Subscribe


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