--GOT THE PROPHET ON MY TONGUE

Loam

I need another

language for grief,

one the crows don’t know. 

They keep clawing

and pecking

while this window

continues to crack,

a thousand flawed diamonds

falling naked in my lap. 

The day you said,

“I am _______” is

still a dead bird

caught in the middle

of my throat. 

What did you think,

that I could hold

the sky for ransom,

nail gun Pandora’s lid

permanently shut? 

Maybe what I really

need right now

is a shovel,

a plot of loamy earth

and two committed feet

to tamp down

what I never could.