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Sheila Packa
recently had a book of poems The Mother
Tongue published by Calyx Press, Duluth.
Her poem in this issue of MCV is from a new work in progress.
Circle
I draw on love soaring on a pinnacle of wind
the wing beat through the trees
the shadows black as black as purple iridescence
I draw on the crowns of trees, the sound
of stones talking loneliness
I draw the ache from the broken heart
that tears the light to ribbons
to carry it to the highest point to feed the darkness
they talk and talk, say, be nobody’s fool
I draw upon the dead
delicate lichen etched upon a face
the origin of ice, the wingspan, the burst of flight
I draw the deep thickets with animals going no one knows
I draw the raven around me twice