Evermore

Evermore
Across the evenings, it suddenly dawns upon me: the hand that mirrors me, that brushes like the dark tips of Huginn, who shrugs & whispers, whispers & shrugs on one aching shoulder while Muninn just stares over the other, & sadly squawks the truths inside this chronicle of lies.
I gave up a heart instead of an eye...

But it seems I have more than one to give.
The hand that draws & fills the black grid holds it up to the light, & prisms it: red shifts, moving, but not away. Closer than the ravens in my ears, her voice, her brush, enfolds me & shows me myself

Where the shoulders pucker around the blade;
where the wings will grow back.

- Evermore; poem by Gregory Crosby; Copyright 2009