I am a bird crucified in barbed wire,

the Grimm ghost of life’s suitor strung up

high in its bramble screen; embroidered in blue

on the divider which keeps clean this seep

of raw breath sleeping.

I hear as you hear; I see as you see.

Oh, I have the wounds, the nails, the grace, but

not the father. Oh, who will comfort me?

I touched life and it bled milk and honey,

my love twined flowers and vines into flesh.

Every heart’s strings tolled the tune of mine. Oh,

have I lived with this heart for it to burst

open in death? And now, who comforts me?

My heart cries out, but all strings stay silent.

My flower has turned her face to the weeds.

I bleed milk curdled, and honey hardened

to tar. I shout my name--but who hears me?

What is a name if no mouth can hold it?

What is a soul if it’s clamped in no name?

Oh, look up at me--see--I am sewn in

snapping blue thread on gray skies and steel wires

a bird flayed open on electric thorns

hung outside the dream of life, still sleeping.

And though its beauty was not made for me,

oh, what eye can blame my hand for reaching?