The Angel of the Forest has a migraine
She lies on a platform suspended high
above the forest floor
willing it to be gone,
willing all the pain in all the world
in through her veins, into the fine-spinning
of her cells, the dendrite branches
the pink-grey curls, parched lips, riven heart
the soft lining of lungs
— as the lungs of the world cry out
— & the matter of the planet burns
— and the sponge of the ocean leaps
in anger
But the Angel in her torn dress, patched
wings, can hold only so much to her chest
only so much grief in the cup of her soul
Until the trees rip the sky apart
calling up the river’s blood
And everything beating and being
in the forest breathes and listens
& weeps too