A bird spiraled down out of the sun,
Black as a Bicycle ace,
Glib as an undertaker.
She broke her fall on the turnips from the truck I had lately fallen out of,
And, oh, what a fabulous line of bullshit she had.
I made her pancakes,
The good kind, with spiced plums;
She ate them,
And ate me,
In the shadow of the wing of the bird with the fabulous line of bullshit,
I gave birth to a child,
An unlikely child,
The scourge of the countryside, in those days.
That's the sort of stuff that I called joy,
When I was younger,
Before I knew any better--
But now my child is grown;
I know bullshit from bath water,
Shibboleth from Shinola;
I am ready for you, my fresh love, the way Athena was ready,
Setting her owl after the faker birds,
Smiling to herself,
for Ella's challenge at Real Toads. My words were child, bird, shadow, and joy.