Mettle, Metal, Heart of a Merlin
Once a month, I am anemic. Drop sore, freckles faded, sleep past sun rising. Bird excessively molting her feathers, I must wait it out, despite the stripping down, the plucked, small version of me.
Low iron and I lay low, still, tears full of sodium. I can’t give oxygen to certain thoughts. Potential walk in the park lies in a banana, potassium purposed, my plumage dull brown and grey, but I rest in the camouflage.
Weakness is in the uterus, you could never do battle say those who emerged from the very wombs they curse, never knowing my raptor nature, where my true wingspan and size reside in my heart. Hunter, gatherer. Does nature or nurture sustain the bridge between life and death?
To endure is the hardest thing. Take a pill, eat a liver, make a black bean soup, all the remedies are offered like folk charms against fatigue. I find the best physic to be spite.
Tell me about tenacity. Brass, piss and vinegar, a feisty merlin fighting all those enormous ospreys in migration. And loving a child, a partner, a friend, family more than the discomfort discounts, to keep flying despite the soreness.
I’m so tired and soft and exposed to the elements today. Yet, I know what mettle is. I may lose iron like this, but I know the ancient irony of the hawkish dove.
My feathers have come back in and I find my second wind to swoop, to hunt, to spy. I pause to scratch and peck out these words, despite my lady hawk ways. This molting is different than all the others, I think to myself, so I will find a new place to nest while I begin a new phase.
@genvieve-of-the-wood May 20, 2021
