by Hannah Lee Jones
As sons and songs go some precede the others like a major chord,
barbed as they are with the mercies of an inheritance. The winter I lost my skin
to my cousins in a cedar hollow, my father’s spade silver in my ear, a wolf’s head
found me in a field of downed hemlock, took my left hand
when I couldn’t reunite it with its body. I know it seems like surrender
that I knelt to its wake. It would seem like surrender that I gave my right
hand to its cold flame as it swept the meadows like a thin hunter.
It was nothing. Except it was silver. It steals through the blood when the north wind
returns to claim what I lack, and I kneel once more. I kneel once more:
heaven knows what hellmoved his offering to another war.
Trees stopped crying as they were cut and whispered as they fell –
here into the drawn breath of another morning, once-phantom moons
sprouting from the old stumps like a second coming, surely a god somewhere.
O god somewhere: find me in some bramble among the crows, sealed in prayer.
Find me in these woods where we die and rise again.