7d
Every day at three—
the little prince arrives,
cawing his prophecy at the door,
voice worn with quiet hunger.
He calls me out—
out of silence,
out of whatever grief I’ve tucked away.
If I do not answer—
he circles,
cawing until I stand before him—
palms cracked open,
giving what I can to feed his hunger.
He knew the weight of my hands
before I did.
What arrogance—
to believe I am the keeper.
Perhaps it is him—
who feeds me—
the voice in the throat of the world,
reminding me—
even the unloved must answer when named.
The hour always comes.
the little prince arrives,
cawing his prophecy at the door,
voice worn with quiet hunger.
He calls me out—
out of silence,
out of whatever grief I’ve tucked away.
If I do not answer—
he circles,
cawing until I stand before him—
palms cracked open,
giving what I can to feed his hunger.
He knew the weight of my hands
before I did.
What arrogance—
to believe I am the keeper.
Perhaps it is him—
who feeds me—
the voice in the throat of the world,
reminding me—
even the unloved must answer when named.
The hour always comes.
He's a picky eater, too.
(16/F)
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