The old gods spoke
through the crows in the trees,
the tongue of flame,
the wind that stirred the ashes,
but I do not know the words
the vireo sings
in the mountain ash
above the raspberries.
In the evening stillness,
the swallows make easy work
of souls on the wing.
In darkness, I see a face
with empty eyes
and teeth like little suns.
Oh to feel pain bloom
out of me like red roses,
like blood of the saints.
