NYU Black Renaissance Noire Fall 2013 - Page 53

4. 6. In the erupted doorways of the pre-dawn I walk into the frozen orchard. Blankets of blackbirds peck at husks, hunchback women lean from the night—I call to them. No answer. In the clearing the child has candles for hands. I look for the blink of the moon on the branch— one eye like an ember, one socket of snow. A black wing crossing a circle of stones fills your tracks with shadow. Behind me coils a trail of leaves. I call for the crow from the lattice of trees, tempt her with memories of gleaming apples—It is imperative you tear her up she caws nuzzling her beak deep inside me and spitting the seeds on the forest floor where the sun in the morning is shattering and brilliant with the prism of your ghost drumming in the hollows of your crushed body. I open my palms, she shatters them— glass windows stain the snowdrifts. 5. Sirens gather apples in their tents. They spit the scraps of my eyes into the fire, string my hair through the cemetery trees. I light a candle in the marbled hall. She dances with ribbons, willow sticks, a black pony-tail on a pinewood pole— this is still not enough to gather back the seeds I spit out into gutters. Because it was not my hands but an instrument that removed the ovular body, widened cracks in her halfclosed eyes, a place to slip through— dim light in the kitchen at daybreak. Glint of bread knife on the floor. The buttress of the dollhouse buckles. The chest of a magpie splays across pavement. I rummage the carcass with a fishing pole, unhook the dream from its vanishing— Beneath raven’s teeth, a little girl runs into the crevice of the sunrise. but it is only the dream’s fresh lace of snow outside the window Dawn flares in the stained-glass window, ignites my palm’s white cross of flames. as I go into the kitchen, place a warm nest on the pine table, 51 BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE crush nine small eggs to swallow. BRN-FALL-2013.indb 51 9/13/13 12:48 AM