With a flap and whoosh he alights
to rule from the clothesline pole,
his shield casting a shadow
of gloom on the bush branch that once
held the quick morning sun finch
whose seven-tone jazz riff played,
wee wee see wee dee wee dee.
Answered by unseen, trading sevens,
who who wee wee see wee dee.
Sweet memory of morning chirps,
the flash of red and yellow breasts
serving up my teacup of jazz.
I feared it would be like pulling teeth,
all hide-and-seek to avoid betrayal, not easy
like removal of a five-year-old’s wiggled incisor.
Then the miracle that my cupped hands
in hers hold water, no leaks,
no protruding river veins or age stains,
they look prayerful rather than begging.
My pointed toe could be bold, an arch
to perfect the gymnast’s leap in open air.
It was a birthday gift, sent alone the day before your heart leaves for a place that’s safer—a book on travel, what to listen for, by yourself in walls that let you look back while your shadow is taken away —it’s too soon! the ribbon is still splendid will spend the night the way a […]
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