Insatiable — A Poem

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“Wind Tossed” — C.Birde, 2/19

 

 

Angry wind,

hungry wind –

wresting fealty

from trunk

and limb

and ragged

crown.

Inside,

ignore serrated

howls…

Count each

breath –

one in,

one out.

For each limb

sundered,

plucked, and

tossed —

in one,

out one,

outward and

unbounded.

Bless

the sheltering

trees.

 

— C.Birde, 2/19

 

 

Discord — A Poem

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“Mosaic” — C.Birde, 2/19

 

I have nothing.

I have nothing left.

I have nothing left to say.

My words,

a song of rust

brushed against

an ear

unhearing,

turned away.

Absorbed

in conflict and

distraction.

Take your ease

in your unease.

I have nothing.

I have nothing left.

I have nothing

left to say.

 

 

— C.Birde, 2/19

Knife – A Dream

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“Knife” — C.Birde, 2/19

 

 

Drop the knife.

There, in the grass,

where the dirt path

crumbles away.

Eight-inches of steel –

sharp as tongues;

full tang clasped

between worn halves

of oiled mahogany.

Blade among blades.

It sings when drawn

over stone.

Old knife.

Older than you.

Knife of Dwayne Young.

Left in a drawer of the stone

house Dwayne built for his

wife. She never joined him

there – preferred the one-

room cottage at the back of

the property. In 1964, your

father married your mother,

bought Dwayne’s house.

Found the knife. In 1988, he

passed the knife along. To

you. A series of partings.

Forgettings. Accidental.

Intentional. Drop the

knife. They’re coming.

Don’t be implicated

Leave it there.

In the grass.

Walk away.

You’ve done

nothing

wrong.

Let

go

.

 

— C.Birde

 

Pack — A Poem

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“Pack” — C.Birde, 2/19

 

We

are a pack,

intimately formed,

with no clear

Alpha,

that role shifting

as easily as

want

need

demand

arises.

Each retains

full memory of arrival,

of introduction

to this flesh —

an ache,

a break,

a humbling of self

denied,

resisted,

at long length

accepted.

Inseparable.

Tippy and Horse;

twins Thumbelina

and Paige;

Daisy, Tippy’s heir.

A tangle of mortality,

we comfort each other,

lick our wounds

as one.

We are

a pack.

 

— C.Birde, 2/19

Flying Apart — A Dream

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Escort asset  — female, mid twenties, fresh-faced, attractive — through the building to safety by way of the escalator. Asset’s stress is palpable. Maintain composure.

Why?

Why must we do this?

So frightened…

Building identified —  open, airy plaza; glass walls; floors, a hard light speckled tile; crowded. Approach with care. Stay alert.

So exposed.

So many people.

Enter through glass doors on the building’s north side. Bright sunlight reflects off  multitudinous surfaces – tiles, windows, counters. Escalator identified — dead ahead; moves steadily toward upper level. No cover. Flank asset. Guide her. Toward the escalator. Through crowd.

NOT people… Doesn’t anyone see?

Their faces…shift from human to… insectoid…

Red-fleshed, huge iris-less eyes, proboscis-like mouths protrude

from bulbous heads…

Shift back…

Threat identified! Close ranks. Weapons ready. Pick up the pace. Press forward to the escalator. Move!

Dizzy… Nausea rising…

Spreading… Thinning…

Falling apart… Flying apart…

Hold! Hold! Fall back! Maintain perimeter! Asset… changing — whole, solid no longer… Becomes a sudden swell of light, brighter and brighter, blinding…

Someone… Anyone…

Asset, engulfed in light — is light — shifts out of register, seems to occupy multiple dimensions… Identifiable… streaming light, seems smeared over the surrounding area in great broad strokes from  center.

* h   e   l   p *

It’s over people! It’s over! Fall in! Fall in!

Feel the ‘snap’… the ‘returning’… like a blow.

Dizzyness remains. Nausea remains.

Weak limbed. Breathless.

Stay on target! Fall in! Threats at 10 o’clock… 2 o’clock… Close ranks! Move move move! To the escalator! Flank her! Ahead and behind! Not through yet! Look alive, people! We don’t know what’s up there!

Happening again… Too soon…

Can’t… hold…

together…

 

— C.Birde, 2/19