ravens and their rituals
replaced decaying things
the last black plums provoked into stone
only a raw seed remained
cradled under my tongue
skeleton softened into bloom petal drunk
with a green question between my teeth
the unavailable garden
filling up with faces
small fire petrified in my breast
slow opal growing rough in my sacrum
under the unbearable weight of wings
call me chanting cadaverine flower
ghost-grown
carrying pulse into the webbed dark
asking the animal question
Ariel Kusby is a poet, journalist, and bookseller based in Portland, Oregon. Her writing has previously appeared in Entropy, Bone Bouquet, Pith, Hunger Mountain, and Luna Luna Magazine, amongst others. To read more of her work please visit http://www.arielkusby.com.
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