Saturday Poem


i think of it as a raw
boy & ..a first clever
step ..boy without

bridle .. and i think of it
as a wrecked
wing fluttering
from sea
coast to crude
landfill .. & i

think of it as dust
on a page in some attic
across from some former

convent …. as a hurt
poem scratched
on fingers
no skin .. no bone
.. & i think

of it as the daughter .. i
said i never wanted .. & found
myself keeping daughter

of the beat morning
daughter of the cracked

by Jim Bell
from Crossing the Bar
Slate Roof Press, 2005