Friday, October 3, 2008

Feather (poem)


I. Prologue

i feel dry. i feel stupid.
thinking that something is lurking,
perhaps there is nothing. the willing victim of
paranoia and speculation. and trying too hard to be prepared.

the best defense is a good offense. unless you're offending the wrong ones.

i'm trying not to leave you out.
i'm trying to let you in.


i feel like i'm trying to force a dead bird.

to fly.


there is no
resurrection for this breathless bird. revive her and
she must start all over—her friends and family have fled.

the feathered idiot choked on all her tears. and seeds that never bloomed.


this cage is comfort and home,
a place to finally rest that beak

from all its pecking and pulling, and
shredding and gnawing

at all the things that kept her grounded and
heavy. and

staring at the shavings. and.
old droppings from

those who have passed on.


there must be a secret. to the flock.
that she has never known.

so, she will give away her feathers,
one by one,

until those who cannot fly
may fly to where
she had hoped to be found.

come all
who wish for wings—

pluck a feather with your fingers.
she will not feel a thing

it is as though she is sleeping

still and silent
on the bottom of the cage—one

wing pointing to the sky,
the other like a pillow on which to rest her


her mind is quiet now
her eyes no longer wander

she lay down so that you and all who dream
could take and grasp

without pain or tear,

a feather.

VII. Epilogue

now i will let my eyes fall upon
your shoulder,

so that they may empty themselves of all
their poison.

all their fire.

all their nightmare: all the paranoia.

i am weary of lurking and. offending and.

trying too hard.

give her breath again.

it is time to sprout
a new kind of feather— that she may rise,
to follow that wing—




for: the heavens.

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