The thing with feathers is grief, it

rises on lofty currents, before

gliding through tomorrow’s womb.

It is a thing of mathematical characteristics, it

can be mapped and charted;

the whole equalling the sum of parts, its

diagram; a view of sacred geometry. 

And grief is the thing of words,

stripping each phrase for export, able to

fight the theatrical battle against language, and

be the bedfellow of poetry. 

Grief is the thing bearing leaves; like

the mighty oak, its

season stilled by December’s cull, and

spring’s breath of birth travels a predictable course.

Grief is the thing of romance, the

songs of unrequited love, of

beauty through curtains of lace, it

holds its masters in temptation, and

wilts even the most tormented heart.

Grief knows ill-fated companionship, as

the wretched beast that

cooks the books, and

storms the castle—it

sits in evening light, and

turns the sheets to ice. 

But it is the thing I live with,

it carves its notes upon my soul,

it writes my chapters, and

wrestles me home—grief is

the thing with feathers, so

airy, so faint, so eternal. 

Be savage not average, it

glared from the white board, in

bold red marker!

Yes!  And

while succumbing to the pain

of torturous lunges, those

words clamped my attention. 

I want that! 

I want my idea of a revenge body, where

I emerge from mist with a glinting cross bow, as

fletchings quiver over my shoulder, I am

ripped—pumped, the form of Artemis!

Sore today, and

probably sore tomorrow, another

quote weakly scribbled in blue;

my thighs burn in the brutal

tearing and shredding of muscle, all for

an image of perfectly timed vengeance,

oh, but how sweet it will be

that moment when the

universe aligns, and

in that view, it is the makings of glory

an offering of hope to unrelenting torture.    

But search me, and try me

know my thoughts as they morph,

from bones of imagination, with

each primitive motion—strength grows, and

power no longer hungers to rage against a ghost.

Less do I squeeze an image of vengeance into

a final pull or push of weight;

the apparitions of a life ago remain, but

the power of Artemis is in me;

I am savage not average.