don't resemble writing desks, okay,
and if you ask one a riddle the only answer
you'll get will be wrapped in questions—
every piece of the yarn a string of words
draped over meaning, sensibility a spider's web
hung from a ceiling—
sound a snare to trap a moral.
Maybe you might say ravens look like clouds—
on occasion, their inner weather darkening sky's page,
emotion written with quills of lightning,
each point dipped in night—
haphazard as Pollock hurling fumes onto canvas,
or Rorschach fumbling
to blot a spill of madness.
And I suppose, in the end, you could say ravens
do bear some (slight) resemblance to writing desks—
but don't ever ask for the key that unlocks
a riddle. Instead, take a step away from clarity
and spread your hands wide enough
to gather all the feathers
falling through flight like snow .
©
is the author of poetry books, Trace Elements, Diary in Irregular Ink, and Happily, and several chapbooks, including Ouija in Suburbia. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Blackbird, cream city review, Blue Lyra Review, Painted Bride Quarterly and elsewhere.
Lamothe’s poem “Wintering” also appears in this issue.
