Monday, February 13, 2023

New Poetry by Kat Crawford










Yogini’s Departure 

The terrier/coonhound DNA emerged today
full force. I had very little say in the matter.
The song sparrow hopped freely as if grateful 
that it lived, after hitting the great glass door. 
Lucy seized the moment to grab what she thought 
was dinner. Drop it! I screeched, a voice 
I’d never use again. The deed was done. Soft brown 
speckled feathers quivered as I made eye contact 
and spoke to its fleeting soul. Who knew the rope 
around my friend’s neck would tackle her 
under mottled light for just a minute, 
crystal necklace and the glint in the sunlight 
in woods behind Butterfly Lane? A man who found her 
called the simple numbers 9 1 1. Her husband 
on his way to Santa Cruz to tell their daughter, 
his swollen eyes he wished were someone else’s. 
Her Warrior Stance and Sun Salutation tumbled 
down a tunnel of darkness with her laughter 
that knew something we do not. Into the light, 
the forest disappeared, smaller and smaller 
till all that was left was her limber body’s impression 
on leaves just fallen after a full Moon. The others 
were all there to greet her, dogs, relatives, my sister. 
My chest hurts to write, and I’m listening to Cuban music 
to drown out the black dust of death. Juncos 
and doves cry their songs to us as a reminder of lips, 
arms, whole bodies making something 
in each shadowy and lyrical day.


- © Kat Crawford 2023


Kat Crawford is a San Francisco writer. 

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