I held visions; I too was chosen
And tossed against my say-so.
Who knew I'd be carried
All those years, or my kiss could form a scar
On her forehead, or that I'd sing to her at
Our meeting was brief;
A rough hand wished her dead
I startled and fell. Here I nest, spent
In a field,
My kind. Her hard lesson, her God-flint.
@Cornelius Eady. Blackbird. Spring 2003. Vol 2, Issue 1.