bright-burning, but not enough
to drive out the night
her bared skin reveals stripes
scars made by other hands
where she was seamed together
assembled by who knows what hands
not mine is all i know
there will be fire yet, oh yes
and there was blood, for certain
and lost feathers from wings refusing
to be broken. freedom and will and safety
one she wants, the other she has
the last a consideration
you may pick two, of course
these crepuscular woods fill
with birdsong and the sound of flight
the ringing of an anvil
delight and tears
Words and Feathers 
Splendid and powerful piece about the two halves if you will, contradictions yet complimentary, not-quite this, not-quite that, for better or for worse. Love that while there are three, life being what it is, but “you may pick two, of course.” Of course. In through it all the shadow of trauma, haunting from its place in the past.
Thanks very much.
I love the poem (the tags made me laugh) and I very much support the keeping alive of ‘crepuscular’!
Your ‘wow’ returned, with interest.
Thank you.