the crane wife

by Allister Nelson

They said I should have loved a crane wife, her bleeding

out in snow, onto ivory ice, I would give her my cloak and

she would be the female Christ, her blood stain my kimono,

and as I carried her home to rice paper walls, on bent back,

she would sing the sister stars down, and those souls departed

would flock around me, and I would know something of the afterlife,

offering up my pain and beauty to death, and as her wings married

my mind and marred my pain stains into something quixotic, I would

quicken, and Hell would have no place in my palace, and I would make

a thousand like her, all for one wish of peace, after Hiroshima bombed

me quite starstruck and desolate, and the grave of the fireflies wept.

They say I should have loved a crane wife instead.

But I became the bank of winter she drowned in, you see.

And I would never steal feathers or clip the wings off a bird.

We let our greatest potential go, and in that, grow.

Love is not the answer. The answer is a frozen rose.

Hope is not my delight. No, it is sacrifice.

And as the crane flies free, I am left flying kites,

looking up at the clouds, and dreaming of redemption

found at bitter beak and angel lips, and a thousand

other

impossible

things.