My Birdlung
you’re most certain of life
when you’re closest to death;
I recall out on a child-like limb
the rage of bird-bodies underfoot
that once sang overhead
and I know it in my bones
I know it in my blood
that this world is done, call it a gypsy-cab.
and even the taxi drivers speak no more,
just two beady eyes in a dream-catcher rear-view
cursing all the cats that dared them;
the radio set to a sure and simple static
I see the faces of strangers
and I feel like
i could have seen them
a thousand times
they speak no words to me and some
don’t even look at me,
their minds are cracking eggshells
and their mouths are spitting feather;
their thudding arrangements
serenade me to sleep
but my bed is within earshot
of a birdlung that could take
every soothsayer by surprise
and sometimes I think
that I fell out of the sky with them.
Copyright © Samuel St. Clair | Year Posted 2012
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment