Long ago, I was my own protector
and ravens were my sole darkness deflectors.
One day, their jet-black feathers they lent me;
a gift goddess must’ve sent all spent souls.
And in my cauldron I added:
flour, white glue, water.
I ripped open my chest with my bare right hand
and dipped each feather in the gelatinous concoction with the other.
One by one, I fused the quills to my heart,
until it became a glop of thudding ravenous plume.
With fishing line in their beaks and needles in their claws,
the ravens stitched me back up without a single flinch.
And I steady-marched forth
from my home’s fronts doors,
confident in the feathery shield I bore.
The core of me, to never yield to
But when mid-December’s gusts were a year-long reality,
the realization poured forth like severed dam:
Feathers had no place on the heart,
just the wings or Gaia’s grounds.
They protect the heart
by freeing it
by being nowhere near it.
If anything, they float in the ether as a reminder:
Be as light as us! Be as carefree as us!
So, the ravens pulled off the stitches,
and layer after layer,
I removed the feather-mâché
until all was crimson again.
Summer solstice made herself known to me
in the heart of winter that year,
in the form of self-love
and freeing love, the