SONGS FALL FROM HER

by on July 30, 2008 :: 0 comments

Unmistakably mad
the blond woman sings
her exit from the psych ward,
belts out The Liberty Song,
watches a flight of pigeons rise—
mistakes them for doves.

She cuts her hair short
with a knife borrowed
from a biker,
a favor she returns,
by allowing his thrusts
to stop her bleeding,
to fill her belly
with a new song.

She does not mourn
her changes, her new
nesting instinct.
She gathers plastic bags
onto a park-oak’s branch,
weaves them into home
from the example
of the birds.

She sits in the dark
all of her songs sung,
eats what remains
of the park bench offerings
to the pigeons, to her.

One day she mistakes
her water breaking
as a change of season,
climbs down, migrates
as the weight of the world
falls from her, flies away
never to be seen again.

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