Thrush Poetry Journal
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James Ellenberger

Naming

Ever reckon what wills a crow to flight? 
Shined black as war figurines, 

they flak forests, cawing get back, 
fucker on a deeper perch, 

which is a crow’s theology. Whined at
from dark, darker 

still with wings, what walker
wouldn’t whistle the last stretch home?

Or why the red fox clips past a stone―
her tail flicking a fluent spark 

spray―when you’re out for berries? 
Out to sweeten my tongue

on barely thawed, dark red berries,
I often forget the name

of this pome or that, of foxes and birds
set nail-deep in forest blackness.

I once loved a word 
shaped like a crow. Atop pines I called it out, 

giving wings the notion
of elsewhere. The names of the dead

rile up crows like the names of rivers:
blurt out compass or kin

and a cacophony sheathes the choke-
cherries, poised to reckon back.



 
James Ellenberger’s chapbook, The Needlework of Their Theft, was a finalist in the 2014 Iron Horse Literary Review Single Author Competition. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Sou’Wester, Passages North, Yemassee, and Apalachee Review. He currently lives in Cincinnati, Ohio where he is pursuing a PhD at the University of Cincinnati.




Return to November 2014 Edition