My feet have become like those of a dancer,

made strong and lithe by evasion rather than by worship.

I dance on the balance beams, though the padding is worn in places,

I can't look at the ground beneath me,

all the dancing birds who came before me now lay there;

covered in muck, heads stiffened with atrophy

and wings broken by the feet of wolves.

Their beaks still move, twitching and hissing

like snakes or tea-kettles; of which I am neither.

Unlike other birds,

I have a head fastened between my shoulders

and though I’ve not yet found direction

my feathers can still catch wind.

Still I wonder what it must be like

to be so dumb, impotent and shrill,

sometimes imagining I've fallen to the floor with them,

and I too roll in the muck and cry ‘Why Me!’.

One day soon, I'm sure it will happen

my nimble feet will stumble

and I'll find myself on the floor,

my eyes will be wet and my throat hoarse.

Yet there on the floor, covered in mud,

wrapped in bedsheets from your home,

I'll find reprieve.

1 comment:

deesharp said...

alright "drinking coffee and thinking about rot" !

Also: great.