My mother and father will not be present,
not really.
They will sit in the velvet-lined rows
clutching plaster masks, perfectly sculpted,
performance-ready at a moment’s notice.
In a haze of smoke and thievery,
and Deceit
painted over with the stolen face of love,
Tears of loss become glittering crystal streams,
light reflecting false joy
Who can tell which is which?
What mask is my mother wearing?
as she stretches a blade
to my sister’s wings, glistening glossy black,
Tracing two clean lines, phantom cuts
Do her hands tremble?
Does my sister squeeze her eyes closed
does she swallow a tear?
What mask is on my father’s face, veiled in shadow?
The blade shines silver and sharp
What mask do I wear at this moment when my eyes slide shut?
Two
Clean
Cuts
Our eyes, covered
by the maelstrom of black feathers
But I can still see,
The splatter—
splatter of crimson
Painting her gown the color of honor
My mother’s face is splashed in the color of pride
And loss.
But today,
Today is the day of my sister’s birth
A lifetime away from the day my mother
Gives her youngest daughter away,
watching her become the child of another mother.
Her fist curls around my finger
and her wings,
Whole and raven black.