Zenona Darrow

Lamb

I call it: recieving gifts
given by the lapping waves

are the washed up sun-bleached remenents
of internal structures
of something once standing,
walking, 
on the same ground as I,
a gift I am recieving?

my finds in the black sand felt
different
after we accidentally passed the slaughterhouse 

I remember your tail
skin attatched and bits of blood on the beach
once white wool entangled
with sea moss

I rememembered your tail
while seeing piles of horns
the scent
a black cat lurking at this building by the ocean

I suppose I knew the death was coming from somewhere

still I value
the white jaw with teeth
and the hip bone
warmed by sunlight on my windowsill

Black Sand

I wonder if the earth is sweet
compared to the salt of the sea

everything can go back to fiber

is the gull content
with its body on the beach
chest facing up to the sky
exposing a carved out bloody hole

would you have wanted to be buried
little lamb,
sea star,
the bones of a duck,
or swept away in the cerulean tide
with everyone else