Diego Enrique Flores, Bonfire of the Vanities (photograph)

All your words must bend
towards hope. Most

birds are no messengers.
Read their guts, then

fall asleep. Dream
avalanche, dream crowding

sternums, claws, the opal
of a replaceable eye.

Its glass shines clearly,
and in your stomach

the harvested hours
turn over, and go silent,

still born as magic. Just
tell your visitors, A poultice

for your privates, Ma'am—
this drink, if shaken, works

for fever, the night-destroyer—
say, take this and wake

in the morning more solid
and they will, stand wet

and clean as a calf surviving
calfing, one who tries out

the ground. The star on its
forehead growing out. Blazing.


Annah Browning