Rhiannon Freebird Forgets Herself

Rhiannon Freebird lifted
her name from songs
favorites she danced wildly to
long hair, straight flowing,
freebird, hands, arms reaching up
up, up, toward beautiful cerulean
she’d have chosen Dreams
if she thought it would fly
or if she had any dreams left.

Funny she chose those songs
from when she had ideals
loved without exemption
smoked pot, drank, never behavior moderated,
was angry only at her parents
when she’s now angry at everyone

spews hatred like colorful polysyllabic vomit
at all the different people
how many different people
there are now . . .
oh, where did they all come from?

Rhiannon Firebird projected conspiracy theories today
about them. Who? THEM, you know.

Thunder doesn’t only happen when it’s raining
sometimes during the winter, when cold stills,
when memories become a hearth-fire, warm, inviting,
the snowstorm brings thunder.
Or way off in the distance, the storm that never comes
but the thunder resounds, a tease, a reminder.

Maybe Rhiannon’s taken by the wind, the sky.
I knew her once, wouldn’t know her now,
malice has stolen her soul.

Sascha Darlington ©2023