Three Bird Poems by Barbara Rockman

Gulls of Loblolly Cove
 
                                    are beak to beak,
                                    no, beak in beak
                                    on kelp-clad rock. 
                                    Late afternoon,
and their hunger
is not morning’s
                                    for live catch
                                    dropped and split.
                                    Rather, it is bird lust I witness.
                                    How wide she had opened her sharp lips
and shrieked for him.  Now, they
beak wrestle, thrust and twist as if
they had our tongues to tangle with.
I missed the exact moment
they released each other,
but he flew first, east,
then she,
her polished yellow eyes
wild with indecision, west.

 
                                   
 
 
Rain Break
 
 
Like the tongue after dark chocolate
                                    the day is thick-edged and delicious.
Rain slicks the slate steps,
marblizes flagstone,
tree moats finally fill.
Reluctantly I seek cover.
 
Except for lightning
nothing buzzes,
nothing rings––
a no alarm afternoon.
 
No finger wags to accuse
lazy  lonely  dull.
I watch
this mudslick, wind-pelted,
rearranged world, lucky
to lean on ancestry
of reverie.
 
Windows stream.
The dog collapses on cool tile.
Birds call through thunder.

 

         Fragile Fabric We Might Be Made Of         
 
            It was as if each breath
            had escaped a pouch
            stitched denial
 
            as its threadbare silk
            gave way, the way
            her friend shook out
 
            her grandmother’s velvet gown
            and except for the seams
            it crumbled to dust.
 
            Dusk downpour
            and the intersection
            opened its black book.
 
            One paragraph bled into the next.
 
            In dream, she extracted
            gray pearls from between her ribs.
            At dawn, clawing leaves
 
            under the dogwood,
            her fingers hooked
            a bird’s withered chest.
 
            She searched its sockets for pearls,
            the intersection for a word,
            tested velvet ash as a surface
 
            to draw upon.
            Only the skeleton
            of dress loosed to breeze–
            a frame she could enter.
 
 
 

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About Miriam Sagan

I'm blogging about poetry, land art, haiku, women artists, road trips, and Baba Yaga at Miriam's Well (https://miriamswell.wordpress.com). The well is ALWAYS looking to publish poetry on our themes, sudden fiction, and guest bloggers and musers.

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