ART

“Feather in the Flames”

by Michael Chowning

I

The world will crumble the day we wake to flight. I read the stories of the bolder and wonder what it felt like to be free. I pace the ribcage of this being until its howling renews. I sleep next to my poems and wake to a knife. A gun. A war not yet started. A man not yet gone. How many does it take?

II

They point to the man on his knees glowing green. Then the man on his knees glowing red. They outline the body for all to see- gun in hand, girl at side. In the forest, I close my eyes and carve an image of love into my favorite tree. It ignites. They flick the match at my feet. I smile- the scene already inside me.

III

Fueled by youth, I ravage the landscape for whatever tenderness it holds. The landscape painted red- the landscape now gone. Everything has an expiration date. Everything must go. Every one must go- start with those with the sharpest teeth. 

IV

I wake again drenched in blood. I wake to a sparrow’s wings fluttering- stagnant in the tinted air. I dry the blood with these pages and repair the wings. Come dusk, all hope is engulfed in the stomach of the beast. When stripped of pens, there are few other options. I dry my wrists and pin the page to the golden door- Song around me, rising. Come tomorrow, the page will be ash. And I will form it into a key. Stab my hand and watch me kiss the blade. Witness the soft field resist the fire by embracing it. Learn the strength of the unarmed by embracing them. 

V

Bloodied, again, I hold the castle to my chest and watch the ruin begin- the boy left alone in my arms,  his tender eyes watering the field once engulfed by thicker walls.