In Tents of Burlap and Bone

We eat the last bird, my sisters and I, split wing and drum
among us.  We are silent.  We utter no words, not to pray,
nor to soothe, the unspoken lying between us like scraps
of kindling, sustaining only the smallest of embers, barely beginning
to tease themselves to heat. We keep the electric promise of tomorrow
safe behind our teeth.  For is that not hope at its most distilled?  A delicate
and cradled creature.  The quiet belief that this last thing is not
the last thing.  The stirring of a gray face on a still, moonless night.
Wide eyes turned skyward to follow an arc that suggests continued
flight. We lick the blood from each others’ fingers, my sisters and I. 
We remain silent.  We remain.

Shannon Hozinec is here, queer, near, far, wherever you are.  She lives in Pittsburgh, PA and selected other works can be found in THRUSH, Deluge, decomP, The Bakery, and Palette Poetry.  Find her on IG: @mourntart.