Evermore

Across the evenings, it suddenly dawns

upon me: the hand that mirrors me,

that brushes like the dark tips of Huginn,

who shrugs & whispers, whispers & shrugs

on one aching shoulder while Muninn just

stares over the other, & sadly squawks

the truths inside this chronicle of lies.

I gave up a heart instead of an eye…

 

But it seems I have more than one to give.

The hand that draws & fills the black grid

holds it up to the light, & prisms it:

red shifts, moving, but not away. Closer

than the ravens in my ears, her voice, her

brush, enfolds me & shows me myself:

 

Where the shoulders pucker around the blade;

where the wings will grow back.

– Gregory Crosby; Copyright 2009