Amber Bird

Yellow
pillow, a sigil mark on the sheet;
carved in by
snotty daydreams, caving
longings, a sweat stain
by a beached mermaid on the mattress.
Noting every
slight,
wrinkle,
melancholy bathtub drama that
drowns one momentarily and then
resurrection. A Lazarus rising.

Splinter
under the fingernail; a shovel
pries the skin hat off;
a butter knife paints the blue
back on; a sister
squeals like a pig and sandpapers
the scalp rough.

Rosemary. Saffron.
Amber bird breaks its neck against the window and
all the lamps click camel; humps
of brown light dotting the
dark living room.

There’s an ensemble,
that quickly accumulates in the doorway
and I
run downstairs, a slippery selkie
slicked by the fluids of life’s
little lessons,
little memories; feet clomp over the
mahogany and for the second time today
I take a moment
to gawk
at death’s beautiful catastrophes.
As a raven would.

First appeared on Larkspurhorne.net October 26, 2015

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