The boy has died.

One third

her not yet twenty

years.

     Intolerable.

     Unbearable.

Here:

within this rough

underground womb

of dull-winking

hematite,

through the crucible

of her direction,

the memorial

is constructed.

She oversees

the smooth stage’s

raising;

the steel frame’s

enclosure struck

with lights;

white screens,

like windless sails,

unfurled.

His image –

     luminous,

     aflare –

will transcend

the dark &

breach the void.

The boy has died.

She wears the burden

of his absence

with fury –

raw-edged &

     bristling.

— C.Birde, 3/21

World

of black & white

entirely comprised

of newspaper

torn to bits,

shredded & strewn

over the landscape,

covering trees &

earth & every little

growing thing

as far as the eye

can see.

An

earth-formed sea

of black & white –

delineated,

bisected,

by a raised ridge

of torn words &

images pressed

into a pastiche

spine.

Carefully

tread this crude

catwalk

gangplank

promenade

balance beam.

Follow one

behind the other

‘til from behind

a copse of print-

wrapped trees

a she moose looms,

protective of her

calf…

Veer off

the path & wade

through the swamp

of printed words

that tugs

at boot & stride.

See there,

within the shred

of black & white,

the doe at rest,

& tucked within

her body’s curve,

a solitary small

& spotted

fawn.

— C.Birde, 3/1