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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When Nox and I go panting beneath, we
have asked the same black questions;


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knowing that songs last forever
almost silent on the wind
I consider my wings
beating silently at the door
of eternity

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And all these words are an act of vomit, of feeling the soul pulse in the stomach and spit; all these words like black bile raindrops on a white porcelain page And all memory of the moment is replaced with the aftermath, and the harsh pleasures of endless revulsion...