THE FEATHER REMEMBERS

I am carved from breath, not clay.
The wind shaped my name before the mouth could speak it.

Feathers — each one a forgotten thought of the sky,
and I, their memory walking.

The earth calls me daughter.
The stars call me home.
Between them, I linger —
a question with wings.

And when you dream of me,
you will wake lighter,
as though your bones remembered
how to lay in pools of brutal bruises.

:: 11.01.2025 ::