Poems by Susan Dane

Art comes first as gift,
wild, free and liberating.
You think you’re going to soar
and soar you do.
But angels have been known
to rip apart
a man’s limbs.
Tucked beneath the wing,
the knife.
First just a stab,
then a neat square sliced
into the pit
of your necessity.
Out from this opened core
pours the new thing,
unsung, unheard, untold.

Colors that implode,
implore. You have a choice.
But more painful
is the choice
to not receive the prayer.
Still, it does not mind if you resist,
as long as you resist hard.
Art is a carnivorous bird.
It needs live flesh
to make it live;
eats strong flesh
to make it strong.