Spirit of Myth Some things never change. Take, for instance, the hierarchy of birds. At the lowest level, principalities, archangels, or angels with brown and sheer white tail feathers rise out of layers of aqua. Above them, a band of soil flecked with gold and darkest brown is scraped away by human hands. There, dominions, virtues, or powers bare their bellies, one broad and white with roots or ribs—it's not for me to say-- another brown and gray stippled with orange as if part of the earth. Their heads are in the haze of heavens, brushstrokes of pink and blue and white. And this is where we leave the earth with a gesture looping as on a frieze: A red eye blinking back at me where thrones and cherubim and seraphim appear, unknowable. Karla Daly Karla Daly is a third-year MFA Creative Writing candidate at American University and has worked in various editorial capacities for many years. Her poetry has appeared in District Lines, The Prose-Poem Project, and Alimentum: The Literature of Food, and she was a co-winner of The Phillips Collection’s Lupertz Poetry Challenge. She lives in Washington, DC.
1 Comment
Melinda Becker
2/6/2020 10:50:56 am
Fantastic imagery, great poem. Thank you!
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