These days

Outside, the certain crows gather in the grass,
plucking up earthworms in their beaks, offerings.

 	These things, plucked offerings, and how you covet them
	and wonder if grace comes with a side of sacrifice—or not. 

Think of grace, without sacrifice, and parse that line;
gather up tall July daisies and boughs of cedar, feathered. 

	Then, imagine feathers, and how these crows 
	dance a fancy waltz as they hunt next to lichen, tree trunks. 

Here, even the tree trunks grow between the outcrops of rock down at the shore, 
limestone shelves that etch out centuries so that your bare feet find fossils.

	I am fossilized driftwood, and ink stains my hands in a way that marks me—
	a woman tattooed by a pen, her alphabet winding around breasts, heart, torso. 

Torso, ribboned cursive, this alphabet that blurs and sinks into pale skin, inking me
as property of letters & lines—unrhymed, these offerings in unmatched pairings.

© Kim Fahner