Susan Denning

 


Sings like a swan unhinged.
Eats bark and berries, the split
claws of bears. Tangled stems.

Marks her route with branches,
a lock of hair for each swerve.
Calls herself sparrow, bird-girl,

porcupine. Sleeps in a field
of nobody-misses-me. Remembers
the faces of spoons, shy tablecloths—

the mouth that she borrowed
when she wanted to speak.

Posted 03/15/10

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