Kingfisher II

by Poetry

you had asked me to write of light
I’m not ready yet – there’s something in the dark
that I need to define; that I need to be ready for
before I let the dawn through
these cracked windows & their cardboard
barricades – I spent years thinking I wrote of
the sun & the way it falls on all bodies
the same      you taught me I was wrong
I had written of you before but never
of the way sunlight fell through your hair
or cast shadows on your skin still blurry
with fake tan; I still find you impossible
I think of you & my fingers break apart
all the hairs of my arms scream & twist
to feathers & silent songs I go – still
trapped in the prosaic silence & no wings
can lift a pen so heavy with ink enough
to sculpt you from the page & no voice breaks
through a beak bound so long
to sing your praises
when I have no right
to write your songs

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You’re in my fingers and I can’t get you out; I can smell you. Warm & wet & dreaming - every time I push a key, you come curling out smoke in good light given form – not human, something else; an angel, if I believed in angels; a devil if I could believe sin...


poets; happy to tell you
you have a broken smile
& they’ll keep you from splints
& medicines
so they can tell you over
& over again

Writing Verse

why did it work on you?
never even mentioned it
when you smiled, laughed
at cruel humour –
touched your fingers
to my arm


I have no song to sing
knowing that songs last forever
almost silent on the wind
I consider my wings
beating silently at the door
of eternity