Only Practice
by Vicki Mandell-King



Mind agile as a Cappuchian, its tail
gripped around a jungle branch, until
the stretch and twist, the growing long

balances

left and right, the right and wrong of brains
and other such things, grooved and split.

Yoked

like dark-eyed oxen in the field,
pulling in the same direction
to lighten the load,

like ebony and ivory, flat and sharp,
that press into melody, like a zebra’s
camouflage, shadow and shine.

In the welcome shell of silence,
broken open by breath,
a bird of paradise blooms,

momentarily

singing the yellow sun to sleep
on a pillow of cloud.













Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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