A young woman, maybe nineteen, with long honeyed hair, and dark eyes,
stands at the edge of the field, out towards the North Carolina border, has a
large and starry eyed hawk, perched on a leather glove on her left arm.
The hawk is blind, but hears whispers of spirits, sees their outlines against
the grey, dark sky. The sun is kept away so the young woman can heal, heal
of the barbarisms of the light.
The young woman, with her alien hybrid beauty and dark eyes that see
the apocalypses that will come when father comes down from the sky,
the end and the revelation of our miniscule meaning.
Starry eyed hawk calls out, the sickly song, the soft song, the song of love.
The young woman coos at him and he flies into that dark sky, to bring back
the prey of thuggish angels.
And the young woman stands there, yellow coat, blue jeans, green wellies,
as sinister and beautiful as any truly divine thing, the flesh of sacred wrath,
the flesh of the hardness of grace.
She opens her mouth, calling down those thuggish angels so eager for war,
so eager to destroy every pure hearted sinner and saint of infernal devotion,
everyone not god’s child and full of hate.
And the starry eyed falcon, eyes blue orbs shot through with white specks,
that captured the ones who knew that heaven was just a citadel of the dead,
and keeps them warm forever.
And the day grows darker and colder, and the forests where Pan, in lust and fear,
is the wildness of the mind not broken, in all it’s grace and fury and innate violence,
in all the days we were young.