Untitled
Under a terrible moon,
in grass that is black,
I slit the belly of the night beast.
Somewhere in the tree line
something calls out
and I hold up my bloodied hands as proof
I mean what I say, I mean what I pray.
How the blood, like the grass,
has lost its color,
how the black
refuses the light.
The stars watch
and close their eyes.
*
Photographer Jordan
Poem completed on 2/7/14
