By Joseph Murphy
Lightning bolts struck my oars
As rowed the seven-colored sky
Seeking a cure.
I sprang from a bolt’s rib to vault the moon; steadied
On the tree’s top-most,
My feet became talons; my scalp
An iron cap.
Wings spread from the cap’s well-etched brim; soaring
I rose amid sea-rounded spirits; plumage
Changing shade and shape.
These spirits whispered chants; preened
My crest, vowed to remain
In the skin of my drum.
I vowed to rise when rain fell
From the sheen of their bones; wear cloud-grey shells
When thunder woke me,
My soaked cap scented of pine;
Blood caked my hands.
Shadows of wing, talon and beak
Had reshaped mine.