Ravens Who Never Returned

unable to steer
any other course but
away.
Carla Martin-Wood


When time was not measured
by the watch bell or wheel's shadow,
ravens flew pale
glimmering like corn
that silvered in the Summer sun

or the limbs of Susannah
scrubbed to sea pearl whiteness
as she washed in the solitude
of her bower. Her intent
not yet defiled by The Elders.

These birds hungered simply,
roots, vines, flower seeds
pine cones even straw.
They did not kill for meat,
claw the heart
or peck the eye.

They clutched dreams,
delivered them with wings
gliding easily on the wind.
Their darkness evolved
later when The Elders
condemned their desire for flight,
their need to explore,

when The Judges
stripped the right of self
from a Hebrew wife
who dared to dismiss
her handmaidens
while bathing at dusk.

Their lust became her fault,
their excuse to control.
And so it was the same
with any free spirit
that flew east beyond
their garden wall,
their guiding hand.

The birds soon changed
as the weather warmed too quickly,
their fair plumes
falling to albino ash
and a stealth darkness
left shining iridescent in the light,
a bruised radiance
reverberating in the hair
of the Hebrew woman,
the Bedouin veil
and the small lungs of girls
afraid to breathe
dreading the next turn
of a doorknob,
the motioning flame
of a lamp.

.