In the feathers
It begins in the wings of doves
the message flies in the pearl space
between the barbs on zephyrs of baked air
spice sodden honey thick scent, golden
baklava fresh from the oven, scented
with cypress resin and thyme, with clay
dust to prickle and score the throat
Icemother
solemn sinewbound
sleeps in midnight sun
slinkmelts the stone
in the light
sableswathe laid down
for the hunter