Breaking
Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap;
they have neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them.
--Luke 12:24
He sits, mornings
with his loaf of stale French.
Blackbirds come,
some prance the pavement
at his feet, some land
on his tattered cap
and coat full of holes.
The wind worries his holey coat
for warmth. He hums
quietly and breaks
the rind, reaches the softer
flesh inside. Birds dive,
peck at his offering, quarrel
over crumbs in the gutter.
Ravenous,
some stab his open hands
and he holds them
open, knows someday
he too will fly
when there’s no more bread.
Mornings he sits
and feeds these birds.
In dreams
he goes to pieces.
--Ronda Broatch
First appeared on Poetry Midwest, pg. 18
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