Blue

Dawn Potter

Once upon a time there is an hour,

rainless, starless. And then

a subtle hand unmasks a claw.

Bone speaks to bone. A cower

roughens a curve; famine gnaws

at tender flanks, grips bone, again,

again, tearing, shredding, once upon a time

sleep pretends to fight, once

an hour shivers into dead rain, dry stars;

into glory, first maculate chime 

of defeat—bruise or savor, a barred

owl’s wail, the shrew that it hunts. 

[forthcoming in Same Old Story (CavanKerry Press, 2014)]