Fisher
Not always as a dove. We often need
A seahawk, yes, the bonebreak bird
Of prey to fold his wings and drop with speed
Surpassing thought, to fall and thus to cede
The kingdom where his cry is sharply heard,
To plunge amid the weeds and murk as gray
As any grave. The breathless water seals
In triumph—till one feeder of the clay
Is slashed anew behind the gills, and yanked away
By some strange fish’s talons, until he feels
The specks and banks and schools he knew
Were muddy prologue to devouring grace,
And flight affords his shock-fixed eye the view
Of waters he had never known were blue
In homage to this heaven’s opened face.
It takes no eye so clear, as up he climbs
Where sun awaits and ether hazes wreathe
His form, to dream him in the world where time’s
Hands fail, the world with which ours rhymes,
Healed of scars and newly taught to breathe.
Will Begley teaches, writes, and raises children in North Carolina. His poems and translations have appeared in journals including Dappled Things and The Road Not Taken.
Amethyst Review 