snug between the blinds,

I peer past the harsh glow

of my nine to five,

twenty four seven

seven eleven

one twenty resting pulse,

barely audible

over the tap tap tapping

of my tired fingers

a crimson cardinal,

perched in the low brush

crimson, the color of blood

surging between my legs

before the doctor

suggests I freeze my eggs

crimson, the color of life erupting

and death forthcoming

crimson, the color of the bible at the Motel 6

carefully placed next to the remote,

carelessly flipping between soulless

portraits of them and self

self, who is not them,

who could never be them

crimson, the color of youthful confidence

screaming pick me

in a bed of cut flowers,

still unaware of the pruning shears

crimson, the color of a cardinal

curious about the strange woodpecker

in a glass cage tap tap tapping

in search of meaning


Another Bird Poem

If I was a bird

I’d fly as effortlessly

as she pulls on his heart

and watch him watch her

through the clouds


There are other wings

he’s fixed

but he’s never had to bandage hers

so I wonder sometimes

if he sees me as wounded

or if someday he could look up

and see me

in the same sky



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