Monday, August 10, 2009

Scarecrow ~ Emily Howard



Position yourself widely over the tan checkerboard

land and tell me if you are feeling better.

I had a hope that you could be hawk by now -

it's not romantic. It's all still an exhausting flight and

lonely. Still you didn't have to do any of it. Didn't have to hang

martyred over the fields in wheat too still to even look like paintings, but

still moving imperceptibly and sensually under your silly sandbag shoes

You were a fine walker, even better runner. If flight is now the order

then let the crows eat your insides, your liver until you are not bound

to representation, to book or to emblem. This boulder dissolved and only

your clothing drifting down the valley into some neighboring farm, pretty

patchwork into patchwork. Then, I'll remember your enormous

former eyes and how you drew them on to take this in.


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