birds

Over on Instagram, I’ve been nanopoblano’ing as well, posting a poem a day. The first 15 days, I tried to integrate a bird into every poem. The second half of this month, I am including a beverage in each. You can follow along at @rawra.avis.

Here are five favorites from the first half:

“If you fold a normal piece of paper in half, 103 times, the thickness of that paper will be larger than the observable universe.”

I origami myself into you,
a busted starship,
93 billion light-years thick.
You promise we
will not sinkhole me,
cannot blackhole you,
so I moonsail through
your peacock-galaxy
where your palms are hold,
and stars are gold,
and we are old,
and new,
and I am in love
with your sky-ocean
waving over my body,
Lifting my small wings.
Silver rings
orbit your tide,
reflecting onto us
as we glide
our way
through
galaxies.

How do I tell the boy
I am magpie before witch,
and witch
before woman.

How do I tell the boy
he is boy before man,

Good man.
He could build a warm house to treat me.
Good man.
He would gild the cage that keeps me.

But I gather my own nest,
and all I need to hold me safe,
is a tree.

I fly away,
and the only way to call me home,
is to be
a tree.

How do I tell the boy
I can’t witch hands to branches,
and I wouldn’t
if I could.

Home must be a place of untreated magic.

A root I can bring my spells to.
A nature I can rest my flight on.

How do I tell the boy,
who does not have magpie eyes,
who cannot see past my witch,

how do I tell the boy
I am a thing with wings?

I fly away.

My love’s the orange in every sun,
the blues of birds above.
My love’s a citrus-stricken sky.
My love’s a mourning dove.
My love’s the Gray in every moon,
the flight of feathers done.
My love’s the rain after it pours.
My love’s a mourning one.

Art by @snappingturtlearts

Black plumes
hold me
safe in sleep,
from nightmares
where I am
birdseed buried.

Mouth full of caw,
I beg for voice
to fall
from feathers:

float back

to bark and tree,
and tree and nest,
and nest and bite,

and bite
and
rest.

His falcon heart
makes mice
of my soul,
scooping us to sky
I am not meant to fly;
swallowing
me
whole.

3 thoughts on “birds

Rawr?

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