San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly

REYNALD ROMEA LUMINARIAS

The Last Caw

For Mark Tobey               

(After THREE BIRDS, c. 1934-1935)

1

riotous ravens scour rocks volcanic,

gleaming granite, pacing, spindly legs on

cadmium landscape beneath the sky of fire-

storm omens. Lava breaks the belly of

our earth - spilling rare substances, licking

great forests, leveling dwellings, cathedrals,

flamboyant bridges, with swirling storms of steel;

oceans bleed seven-petal-anemones,

iridescent origins of the universe.

One raven, in fact, bears the brightest wing

with streaks of snow. Another pecks at bits of

dry moss, emerging from a cave near a grove

of needle-less cedars. Final roof of ice begins

to fall when our gaping earth, birthing, groans

2

A pair of ravens, brooding, looking

rather pleased, skip around a murky pond –

longing for lotuses, white lilies. They rest

beside a swath of asphalt; for they, too, are asphalt,

remains of burnt cathedral travertine,

lapis lazuli turned into soot, yet, now,

(please look closely) how their darkness glistens

magnanimity: night of microscopic

constellations spewed out into a fast-

receding coal-black abyss recalling

every galaxy’s, every grain of sand’s –

each root’s, each fruit’s, each nest’s…now listen: music

of each survivor’s new, lyre-muted caw

like brave raven’s last fire-mooted caw