In Ecstasy

// Kelly Forsythe

a crow tears a leg
on a branch —

you remember
being that reckless

with your body,
violet repeating itself
on arms: bruises

like nestled asterisks,
blunt damage from tree houses
swollen by rainwater.

—

In the springtime

you were a black
gun with wings,

feathers greying
with residue

ready to fire
forth into the warm
oaks, shredded leaves
tossed up in a crossfire.