The Florida Sandhill Crane

By wings whose shapes
are but half a heart?
Feathers oiled with
country clubs and
gasps of delight? Not for these
the sandhill crane
shakes her beaded voice.
  
Gauche and gangrene,
she is the gatekeeper of gibe,
a cement-grey song
edged and pocked in grassy
fields, a frock of scarlet
over her eye, her own letter
to time and her maker;
  
a bow, a leap, all a dance
to the heavens and the blue
plastic tarps mapping
the devil in a state
of wind and rain,
a crucifix in her throat
to scratch the itch of her fable.
  
Fruit flies darn the citrus fallen
and rotten in the late spring
she side steps and heads
for the wetlands, to a river
that flows North pierced with blossoms
and the song of Marsyas,
a Suprematist’s White on White,  blossom on flesh,
  
small Corinthian dreams gargle in her throat,
her voice of leaves and muck
folded up in an awkward flight,
a frieze of battles and victories
lining the sky as if in a couplet
of straight lines, as if she could know she would wed
the palette of one into a mural of two.
Slag and Fortune
Didi Jackson
Jackson_cover

Slag and Fortune

Didi Jackson

Floating Wolf Quarterly Cover_wolf
 
 
Slag and Fortune cover

Slag and Fortune

Didi Jackson


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