Hungry Ghost
I watch a mass of red-winged black birds
in the high distance flock against the turning
leaves, watch them rise, tar wings cutting
the sky, cresting the hazy red dusted tree tops
surfacing beneath them. The sadness inside
me sears blue, & I feed it my skin, my bones;
still it begs, batting at my tendons like a cat.
On the edge of deliverance, the fondness
of solitude, the sadness curls up, purring
in my chest. I think about the way it presses to
my forehead like a kiss, chewing into my skull,
burning my breath. They tell me to count to ten,
name five things I can see, four I can hear,
to breathe in a box, but still I slip into collapse—
a ghost born naked, scraps of flesh, snippets
of voice, face of my fear, hostage of my bones.
I’m trying to make sense of what came before,
before they rose, lifted their razor-sharp wings,
& I call out across a cloudscape torn with black
gales never having fully understood the bounty
of birds, forgiveness of sins, wipe my brow
of the wet, muted, worn, warm hunger calling
my body home to rooms more haunted than me,
knowing now better than to betray the spirit,
for it speaks the language of God.
Ariana D. Den Bleyker is a Pittsburgh native currently residing in New York’s Hudson Valley where she is a wife and mother of two. When she’s not writing, she’s spending time with her family and every once in a while sleeps. She is the author of four collections and twenty-one chapbooks, among others. She is founder and publisher of ELJ Editions, Ltd., a 501(c)3 literary nonprofit. She hopes you’ll fall in love with her words.
Amethyst Review 