Matt Pasca

Issue #
February 28, 2015

Raven Wire

Listen: there are whimpers in the rubble, tanks
razing orchards, light rising in her

birthday throat. Owl butterflies poke senselessly
into turf, muezzins chant into silver, calling

kestrels and corpses to prayer. We stretch
till language comes, augured through

rock, hung between air and loss.
Sometimes the wire quiets. We worry

they won’t make it back, black wings
thick with thought and memory.

Our throne grows cold, ears
set for the wormhole rush—

stars stirring into one
stream that flies, muse

both shrouded and seen.

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