I took two hearts for birds.
The first, a silver fledgling
in the landscape’s one tree
polished the sky
when it took wing,
and in its place,
a brilliant sun
declined to nest.
Years ran down feelings,
as if the brooding
had not hatched.
The light came on
one night in the kitchen’s dark
when I opened the refrigerator,
which was empty,
except for the frozen raven,
a past century's relic
on its Wedgwood platter.
As I reached in
to pick it up,
the bird’s skin turned translucent
and I could see the heart
inside was pumping.
My hands went right into the bird
and I took up the heart,
which was good-sized,
lifting it out
with a freedom's intention.
I am holding the heart
in my hands
and it is spilling blood
onto the floor.
The tenderness I feel
mixes with yearning.
I find the redness
of its aeration flattering,
and I don’t want to get
myself in trouble,
taking back
what had belonged to me.
Whoa. Full of surprising twists. I feel naive. Feels a little bit like Dali.
ReplyDeleteI don't get the "get/myself in trouble" part but the images overall are vivid and strange (dream-like), and somehow moving. I've been having a hard time writing and enjoy seeing what you come up with.
ReplyDeleteI love the juxtaposition between the silver/aerial flight of the first bird and the carnal/ visceral blood of the second. like memory, there is a lightness in letting go, and also an unelenting horror to the immutability of the past. this is a great poem. kind of hitchcock, in a way. i love it!
ReplyDelete