The Crane Wife

by Brittany Warman

I cannot lie to you.
(I cannot lie.)

Instead, I pull white feathers from this foreign body
and shut 
my 
mouth.

Each extraction, a sharp prick of pain, 
a loss softer than your kiss. 
For you, I do this. 

The cloth I make is the silk mist of our now lonely mornings,
the remembered happiness of old pine trees after a summer rain.
It is made from the ghostly touch of your hands, 
our forgotten laughter.

(Over our knives and feathers, 
these needles and my dreams of freedom, 
I have cried.)

And when you finally see what I do -
when your eyes take in my blood soaked dress,
my pain soaked eyes, and you say...

    nothing...

that will be the end. 
(I will not lie.)

October 20th, 2014