Karen Brooks

Feathered into Space

Screams from the womb
feathered into space
my breath, away from its place,
the earth, piles sand in a dead end street

walking around by the thousands
the eyes, two slits, sometimes small arrows
the brain and the heart looking through
the sight that builds, the sun that shines

my heart, the statue with a door.
hucksters selling, writers digging
walking and looking. the animals
bite, come down, but mostly
I look at the baby that sustains looking.

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