Plenum

Someone is always seeking
treasure or a roadrunner
in those old cartoons
when a heavy anvil falls
from the sky

or a hammer slips
from a bumped shelf
to land upon a skull
then encircled            
with stars.

In later versions
that shimmering ring
gives way
to tiny birds chirping
in tight turns overhead

as it did for those shepherds
outside Bethlehem—the twinkle
transformed into wing and song
until everywhere was noteworthy
even that space between

their ears reverberating praise.
The Milky Way brimmed
with a hymn
until there was no room
for another word

just a mother humming
an infant to sleep,
his mouth milk-swollen,
her chest still overflowing
its treasure.


Copyright © 2022 by AJ Saur, from Of Bone and Pinion
(Murmuration Press)