by Carolyn Adams
The night I fell to earth,
I crashed through the sunset
and all its colors striped my skin.
Idiot birds, constantly circling,
crowned impossibly tall foliage.
The trees were animals,
their vulnerable chests
thrust forward.
The night I fell to,
was half-lit with blue shadows
and a memory of the moon.
The stars were a processional hall
of heavy, inverted bells
swaying, swinging.
And I was not alone.
The night I fell,
I landed in the arms
of an enormous beast
whose broken hands joined overhead,
labyrinthine,
in a cosmic,
comical yawn.
The night eye,
staring through skeleton ribs
and a forest of headless forms,
saw that, in their shadows,
all passengers live many lives.
The night,
fluid with faint voices
and crystal water,
was full and rich,
distance and proximity combined.
And I was not afraid.
The,
or should I say that,
singular moment
was only the beginning
of my transformation.
Carolyn Adams’Â poetry and art have been widely published in print and on the web, including within Common Ground Review, Caveat Lector, and others. She was nominated for a Pushcart prize, and was a finalist for the 2013 Houston Poet Laureate position.
Hawaii Pacific Review 