Poem: "The Not" by Pamela Harrison
The Not
Not getting what you want, the wanting burning a bright hole in your survival, is a kind of fortune, is it not? So like the lone crow poking through the snow of the buried field, feeling for anything, any rough patch of fox kill, owl kill, the wind-empty pods of meadow weeds. It’s the stabbing, insistent search, the goading at the given that spreads your wings and lofts you, still ravenous, into the iron air. |
LISTEN Pamela Harrison reads "The Not" |