The chorus of your making

 
With even hands I drew,
pulled back,
and let loose the arrow
whose head, dark as starless
night and crafted
in golden embers
of acacia, broke the
skin between ribs
protecting anxious lungs
and quivering heart.
For miles I followed
the uneven pattering
of hooves on parched
and hardened clay,
spotted bright with crimson
to where she lay,
her deep brown eyes
accepting and wide.
With my lips against
her nose her final breath,
cool in the Saharan sun
rustled my eyelashes as
I pulled the black obsidian
from her soft yet
weathered flank.

Her skin became yours,
baked and stretched
through ruthless winter heat.
Her ribs became your
backbone, carved
and shaped with
a knife made of her
thick and sturdy skull.
Her teeth became your
jewelry, embedded and gently
intertwined with tiny shells
into your neck.
Each stroke of your strings,
woven with her
tightened tendons,
sings a song of praise
for all she gave
for you to live.
Each pounding of
my palm upon
your belly echoes
the pumping of her heart,
that gave its final beat
for us to thank the rain,
the sun, the stars,
the trees, and earth
where she was born,
who formed you.
As sisters and brothers bound
by a blaze of smoke rising
to the moon, we call
her mother in our rhyme.

In a different blaze
of flames a different
song was sung
by tears on scorched
earth and screams choked
out by gas and pale,
unfamiliar hands.
I watched through
bloody rain as they
yanked you from
my loving fingers
and snapped your
precious neck with ease.
I heard our anguish
in your broken strings as
piece by piece
they tore apart
and laughed at you,
shriveling in a fire
of your makers.
The skies and trees and land
that birthed us took us home
with loving hearts
of lead; thunder rumbled
out our rhythm,
rains poured down
and lightning struck
with anger our song
you sung
again in tune.
And once more our
voices echoed out
the chorus of your making,
as wind against
the backs of creatures
with deep brown eyes
and bodies made
to give.

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