Friday, August 14, 2015


I live at Number 60 and have, through industry and dispensation,
made it onto the day roster at the rock factory
where we build birds to which we attach small personal compositions
which can be read after they come through your window on arced trajectory.

I was born in a nest in a mailbox, lo these many years ago,
delivered by a newsboy who pedaled his bicycle out of Hell to help me.
Mother only bled a tiny drop of Freon, but complained that he smoked;
she could smell it on his rags and anyway, he wasn't a DuPont, now was he?

Carrying around an hourglass, I fell in love with one man and a dozen women,
tilting my head up, offering them chickens, Cokes, anything,
as I ran alongside the bus on tip-toes, wearing a prom dress, stoned and winning,
until it was discovered that I was just loud and starving, like any fledgling.

Let's skip to the chase, shall we? I love you. You're the last.
Give me your disease, I'll spit stones and build a house all hammer and tongs,
where we'll live when I quit the factory and you quit on life, wearing a white dress
as beautiful as any bird in the sky, every bit pitched and gorgeous as my songs.



Blogoratti said...

I had to reread this outstanding piece, filled with raw emotions that I found hard to shake off.

Sherry Blue Sky said...

Sigh. "Let's cut to the chase. I love you. You're the last." Who could resist?

Cloudia said...

your mind is a wonderland!

Kerry O'Connor said...

I love the way you set this up for the conclusion, which for me is achingly beautiful. Such a declaration of love to bring tears to the eyes.

Sioux said...

Initially I thought the last stanza was the most gorgeous--a first impression!--but then reread it and then I thought the second to last was just as beautiful. Then I reread it again and thought, fuhgeddabottit.

The images throughout are moving and striking.

hedgewitch said...

I don't know why but the second stanza really stands out for me--though of course this is one of those organic sorts of poems that builds itself as it grows to a conclusion which seems as generous and splendid as a lavish bouquet of spring flowers, and as devastating as finding them made of paper, just like the heart, that can be folded and torn only so many times. Yet it beats on, and sometimes, it even sings.

Susan said...

What a story of love and loss and longing! The allusions are unfamiliar to me, but that only added to the pleasure and pain I felt on reading. I'm sorry to report that I also got a visual impression of statues of women in Paris--mostly naked--covered with white bird droppings, not quite as full as a dress. Finally, the idea of a bird, birthed, beak up for substance, also being the giver of nurture moved me beyond words. How I hope the one at number 60 gets her wish as she runs and flies alongside her love.

Mama Zen said...

This is striking and unexpected in its imagery. Just amazing, Shay.

my heart's love songs said...

one of your best, SP!

Meester Uttley said...

Wow. Now this is a poem!