Linda Tomol Pennisi

I am not a box of wings.  

Not a dress tossed from attic window
nor a couch tossed in rage.

I am not the rage heaving the couch.

Not the blackbird pecking attic  
glass as if life depends upon it.

Not nestling skeletons huddled on the floor.

I am not the rescued doll
nor toppled drawers of ragged panties.

Not chewed edges of braided rugs

nor the mice methodically chewing.
I am not the hawk

high up in the hickory though I

aspire to be, trash
shooting from attic window

incidental. Small bodies forage

inside avalanching
fabric and bones.