The past lies in her hand like a dead bird, feathers spread,
\nfeet covered in dust. It frightens her, but still she holds it.<\/p>\n
Into the sadly turned nape, she reads her own failings,
\nin the steely blue-black wings, her own stiff desire, the need<\/p>\n
she has to be held. This is ridiculous! she tells herself. Mad
\nflies circle her hand. I\u2019ll change this, find something better\u2014<\/p>\n
a coin, a forsaken toy, a wildflower. Yet this dead bird becomes
\nso much a part of her\u2014her lips now a beak, the turn of her head<\/p>\n
a bob. Her mother a woman nesting on a couch. Her father
\nwith eyes of sharp obsidian, blustering amidst a crowd<\/p>\n
of strangers. A trill, whirs, a sharp chirp. There\u2019s so much
\ngrit in the years. This morning she looked at old photos, <\/p>\n
starchy shots, her mother with a hand on her shoulder.
\nThe day beckons. A car passes. The present squirms<\/p>\n
like a deer mouse, pushing its nose on her palm,
\ndeeper in color, insistent, perhaps kinder. Morning <\/p>\n
split with bird calls, the underside of everything revealed.<\/p>\n
Published in:
\nPoetry Breakfast
\nDec. 2016<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The past lies in her hand like a dead bird, feathers spread, feet covered in dust. It frightens her, but still she holds it. Into the sadly turned nape, she reads her own failings, in the steely blue-black wings, her own stiff desire, the need she has to be held. This is ridiculous! she tells … <\/p>\n