Mudlark No. 48 (2012)


A wire-mesh tray sifting small from large,
crumbled seed from shell, feeling from faces 
that remain, eyes closed, mouths’ unfinished sent-
ences. The once had and lost, a sister’s 
photo, blown leaves that should not be at your
feet. A brother dying on a city 
street, friend trying to lift him, a memory  
caught and fibrous at the edge of the tray, 
where breath ends, where the slight scraping of time 
is a fingernail drawn across wire
screens—this permeable thing in your hands that you
shake from side to side, roseate dust falling.
You wake to chickadees. Perpetual 
haste. The six crows peering in your window.     

John Allman | Cinnamon Angel Wings at Signe’s Heaven-Bound Bakery
Contents | Mudlark No. 48 (2012)