NYU Black Renaissance Noire Fall 2013 - Page 50

By JENNIFER FOERSTER Relic An atlas on the underside of my dream— my half-shut eyelid— a crow’s wing. I dipped sharp quills in the night’s mouth— moths swarmed from my throat. I pulled a feather blanket over my skeleton and woke— a map of America flapping in the dark. Once I dreamt of inheriting this— my mother who still follows larks through the field, my sister’s small hand tucked inside hers, 48 me on her breast in a burial quilt. BRN-FALL-2013.indb 48 9/13/13 12:48 AM