A Month of Poetry: Four

by thereisnosurvivorsguide

For Her

 

I noticed one dead bird

and then another.

These are the current signs

of spring.

 

Later, a robin landed on the fence.

 

I remembered walking

from second grade. It was just

after Easter. I found a small blue egg

by the trunk of a tree and put it

in my empty mouth. I spit it into my hand and tried

to birth it from the warmth of discarded rags.

 

This robin grew from an egg

before it perched on this fence.

 

It was probably birthed from

a proper nest.

 

This is not my robin.

This is not my fence.

 

Consider this: All travel is time travel.

 

Here, the egg did not hatch.

But waiting for her, I collected from the burn pile

of secrets and created wings.  

Strung the cardboard of flattened beer cases

and cigarette cartons on an extra pair

of boot strings someone else didn’t need.

 

Tied to the costume of trash

I role-played free.  

 

Here again:

I noticed one more dead bird

and then another.

This time together,

a pair.

 

 

I am still wearing crafted wings.

And I am still waiting for her. 

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