Into the den of the wicked blackbird
and past my less fortunate peers,
I arrived in an orchard humming with growth
and the beauty I no longer possessed.
Through the thick branches and under their leaves-
who provided proof to skeptics
that come spring again she’d be productive-
and to a heavy halt I came.
Had I arrived, or was I still troubled?
Like my red and black pride-ink, permanent
in a condition that made me a puppet
to the callous claws of the smirking blackbird.
And so in the darkness I surrendered
to the smiles who mock my light.