me. Fix me. Save me.
You are the hail storm, each thrump a nail catching the coffin
Go, eat your own sins, these bodies did not grow rigid on your
Blood-honey enigma, you draw pity-breath from your audience.
Fix me. Save Me. You promise your pieces will
grease-slot into private places.
Then stir, a tornedo, a purpose. A grey cog in the misery
The dawn is a muddied fool to you. The blinkered stars a
you insist on sharing, like a stale communion body. You
host and speak
for all of us gladly. Your pain the only real connection
we have to Him.
A Magpie in your jet long tailed coat, you gleam bottle tops,
treasured coins from the eyes. A black-hooded killer
passing out redemption.
Pushed and shoved, we are the tin chink shudders to your
Clip your feathers close - deliver your black rimmed code
Go back to picking over your children’s bones.
If you have any comments on this poem, Jennie Owen would be
pleased to hear from you.