I found the true, sun-rendered into grass.
Your crest was bruised, and bled darkly as wine,
Unfolded fan of bronze between the green
Blades: cut down, dissociated flame.

Rooster plucked bald, spur-riven by rage;
Fresh amputee of faith; his brothers, turned;
Beloved hen, a prize for violent men;
Disintegrated end of pointless feathers.

If I were strong, like you, I may not
Have chased him down and put him in a cage;
Rewritten him this unreal sanctuary, made
Of wire and wood, wish-woven with vervain.

A mess of mercies is my apocalyptic kitchen.
By my haphazard and incomplete, sincere
Effacement, I perform, historically,
These dueling, death-won, verb-mangled essences.

The crumbling law of walls, a garden crossed
By interventions; roses uprooted by birds,
Cock-sacrificed, or saved—Indigo is
The privilege of my indefinition . . .

As braver hearts traverse this tear-trembling
Threshold, until the Iris appetite resolves
In fundamental mud of lotus eaters.
I offer you kue, leftover from purnama.

//

Kue, which are small cakes, are often part of the Balinese canang (offerings) left around the home on purnama (the full moon).

This is my entry for the September IndieWeb Carnival, hosted by Sophia, on the theme “second person birds”.