I brought two hearts to 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
to pick it up,
the bird’s skin turned translucent
and I could see the heart
pumping inside its cavity.
My hands reached inside the bird
past the liver and into the sac
where I cupped, good-sized,
and lifted - as if wholesome -
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
for the redness flatters
its aeration.
I don’t want to explain
myself into 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