BROKEN-WINGED BIRDS from James Goertel’s bi-weekly poetry feature, Under The Same Moon, offers something for the mourner, martyr, and the lover.
I watched from the cedar widow’s walk
as saints fell from the sky,
coming to rest in tree limbs and puddled rain.
My lover drew a shallow bath
and shook broken-winged birds nesting in her hair
into the fold of an ‘ezor of linen.
I set the clocks, perched in every room,
each to a different time
and fashioned a cage from dry olive branches.
My lover baptized a dying dove
as dusk made shadows of mourners and martyrs,
of an hour even I couldn’t change.