ode to the sword by Anne Liberton
46 lines
Issue 1 (Winter, February 2023)
pray upon flaxseed and carcasses
knee-deep through her gossamer nest
tissue in hand, Suindara will come
better prepare a droplet of red
for her eyes do not bother
lest yours do have caps
those who love you have failed you
those who love her, abandoned you
misoneism will bend a saint
have a Rasga-mortalha instead
hold your hand
claws sharp as grief
beneath her veil of umbra
will guide you past wreaths
tear roses asunder
[a hoot pierces the air
it is stone
drenched dirt caught in your hair
as fair a barrier to halt the dead as
the headstone that stands
between you and your Juliet
more than granite, life traps
each on one side, never crossing paths
it wafts off your skin
loneliness pours out the seams of
the gashes Suindara makes
behind her beak, she weeps and
nosedives on your insides
gorging on a willing sacrifice who
lies in wait for paramount dusk
chipped crosses bid farewell
angels gasp and vines slither
into their mouths for a better view
of the now-gone bird-woman
time escapes your grip
so suddenly
you miss how grass
withstands your pellucid limbs
through granite, which
has moved nowhere, you meet
a welcoming hand
reclaimed and unbent
Juliet smiles
and granite—it is but stone
it can’t hold you anymore
[an owl sweeps the air