She’s a blackbird, chipped and dry
Marble lines: gray, black, white
Face weathered, wings tethered
Beaded eyes, all-seeing outside the light
In gritty squawks
She talks to the night

Laugh lines and rusty bells
Secrets she tells in whispers and sighs
You can fly

She’s war-striped and spangled
Her mangled nest left behind
A mess of battle cries
She squints at the moon and sings
With books on her breast and songs in her beak
She beats her wings
And flies

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