The Ibises

when we were taught
the setting of the sun—
from where it comes
and similarly, where it
goes—into the belly
of the world—we,
seeing the sacred ibis
rise at dusk and fly
west into the darkening
sky’s tide, and reading
that strange sign, and
hearing its insolvent
indigo siren—where
the sins of man were too
cumbersome to bear
for sun flight, only wading
in the darkness, we knew
it was the smarter of the
other animals for sending
us its goodbyes—it would
survive the flight from
darkness and would
arrive in light inside
the world, whereas,
wherewhy, whywhere,
we wait atop the earth
holding dead sheep’s wool
to our shivering limbs,
we count the hours, saying
prayers for our profanities,
we are scared when the sun
departs, and share our beds
with spectres, and with white
ghostly memories of our
many traumas—we have only
stillness and our auspicy—
the movements, the moanings
the strange retreating
of the ibises.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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