Yellowhammer

Not yellow much or much of a hammer.

His brain, the mass of two paper clips,

spared what hammering there is,

the force diffusing through his bones like grace.

Between wingbeats, a lull, a loping measure

like the mind repulsed at the edge of sleep

or dropping to the next line or stanza.

Doesn’t raise hairs or the dead with his rebel yell,

nor maketh he much of a pretty singing.

No more a coward than the rest of his kingdom,

glorious bright striking light of redemption

he is not. Yellibama, hallelujah, yellowhammer—

another name by violence yoked together.