Requiem for the Birds
The plumber came and went today. I let him
through the backdoor. Sorry, I had a long
night, is what I told him. He attended
the pipes, and at one in the afternoon I
crept back to the crippled comforter Dan
and I chose together the first night we moved
in to our new place. An ugly house with apple-
green shutters, foundation lopsided.
A hideous thing. I swallowed down a blue
pill. Shut the black curtains—room darker than
my dreams. The night wasn’t long. It was you.
Another sheet of their never-ending. Kiss of hope.
It was you all along. The lighting was low, a
disturbing ambience to the place that detained
no fucking promise for me. I think you knew it.
My dreams had flocked away like your birds.
But I was all smiles and sincerity wasn’t I?
You’re a fool. Congratulations on you’re
success. Really. I mean it. Am I still writing?
No. I haven’t been. I won’t. I don’t say this.
You tell me, You have to, But the talent and the
waste, You’re a poet, So strong, and on. And
on. The blanket is heated by the bodies of
loyalty—two dogs that won’t leave my side even
though they’ve nothing to drift them off.
It’s dark and there are salt pearls flickering
across my lips. It was you all along that guided
my hand to the amber bottle for two days counting.
Two days I didn’t eat. I sipped a Cherry Pepsi,
carbonation deceiving my stomach into
feeling full. But, by the second day the hunger
never came. I was—I am—so tired. Why you
(can you tell me why it had to be you)?
You kissed the supple crevice of my mouth
last night. Too tender. Too sweet. Cold when
the Fall air hit the wetness you had left. Maybe
it was a slip. Maybe I stepped into it. Maybe
you were sloppy from the wine and I was
ascribing meaning to the emptiness of that
night—the night that held so little away for me.
That day I designed a Web page I didn’t give two
shits about. It was disorganized, graphics
aesthetically unappealing, content wordless.
I just fucking did it. (Can you please stoppit?)
Don’t keep coming back to me with your sloppy
kiss and unappreciated compliments, your
well-intended pedagogy. Back to bed,
where dreams have not been dreamt. (Go away
and let it be.) The plumber—he came—he went.
He didn’t say goodbye. You’re never-ending
birds float hauntingly away with all winged hope.
Girl, you had called me once. But again,
maybe it was me that night—me and those
damned feathers that meant nothing at all.
The plumber came and went today. I let him
through the backdoor. Sorry, I had a long
night, is what I told him. He attended
the pipes, and at one in the afternoon I
crept back to the crippled comforter Dan
and I chose together the first night we moved
in to our new place. An ugly house with apple-
green shutters, foundation lopsided.
A hideous thing. I swallowed down a blue
pill. Shut the black curtains—room darker than
my dreams. The night wasn’t long. It was you.
Another sheet of their never-ending. Kiss of hope.
It was you all along. The lighting was low, a
disturbing ambience to the place that detained
no fucking promise for me. I think you knew it.
My dreams had flocked away like your birds.
But I was all smiles and sincerity wasn’t I?
You’re a fool. Congratulations on you’re
success. Really. I mean it. Am I still writing?
No. I haven’t been. I won’t. I don’t say this.
You tell me, You have to, But the talent and the
waste, You’re a poet, So strong, and on. And
on. The blanket is heated by the bodies of
loyalty—two dogs that won’t leave my side even
though they’ve nothing to drift them off.
It’s dark and there are salt pearls flickering
across my lips. It was you all along that guided
my hand to the amber bottle for two days counting.
Two days I didn’t eat. I sipped a Cherry Pepsi,
carbonation deceiving my stomach into
feeling full. But, by the second day the hunger
never came. I was—I am—so tired. Why you
(can you tell me why it had to be you)?
You kissed the supple crevice of my mouth
last night. Too tender. Too sweet. Cold when
the Fall air hit the wetness you had left. Maybe
it was a slip. Maybe I stepped into it. Maybe
you were sloppy from the wine and I was
ascribing meaning to the emptiness of that
night—the night that held so little away for me.
That day I designed a Web page I didn’t give two
shits about. It was disorganized, graphics
aesthetically unappealing, content wordless.
I just fucking did it. (Can you please stoppit?)
Don’t keep coming back to me with your sloppy
kiss and unappreciated compliments, your
well-intended pedagogy. Back to bed,
where dreams have not been dreamt. (Go away
and let it be.) The plumber—he came—he went.
He didn’t say goodbye. You’re never-ending
birds float hauntingly away with all winged hope.
Girl, you had called me once. But again,
maybe it was me that night—me and those
damned feathers that meant nothing at all.
