Shaken — A Dream

“Broken Cell” — C.Birde, 8/20

Don’t shake it.”

He speaks in distracted manner,

as of one who grasps deep understanding

of such things as cell phones –


that should not rattle & shift within themselves

with shivers of noise in enthralling fashion.

Don’t shake it.


He said nothing of lifting it,

drawing it over lips, teeth, tongue,

feeling that seam incised in its length & sides,

of separating that seam so that gears &

circuitry & delicate inner workings

sift uniformly across the tongue,

crunch between molars, premolars, incisors,

move like coarse sand or grit or powdered glass

past pharynx & larynx

to scrape slowly, finally, at long last





the trachea…

He said nothing of this.

Needless warning.

Uncalled for.



— C.Birde, 8/20

Who…? — A Poem

“Rudbeckia” — C.Birde, 8/20

Who are we?

We are who we are.

Amorphous collective

stripped down

to bared teeth & bones.

Subjective “known”


over months



Facades peeled &

pared & rendered


Who are we?

I know not


I know



— C.Birde, 8/20

Thornapple — An Image

“Thornapple” — C.Birde, 8/20

“Admire my lines,

my wanton form & tumble;

inhale my scent, hypnotic…

But be forewarned,” she said

“Press your teeth

not to my throat;

neither pluck nor bruise me;

else risk both thorn

& poison.”

— C.Birde, 8/20

Threnody — A Poem

“Mourning Dove” — painting by Marie Nonnast Bohlen

My grief

is a mourning dove,

all hollow bones &




Poor tender, disconsolate


She curls talons against

her perch –

my heart –

pierces that soft muscled

chamber &

coos a mournful


— C.Birde, 8/20

Depart/ed — A Dream

“Road” — C.Birde, 8/20

As in the way of dreams, two realities –

he has died;

he walks, straight and tall, beside me.

In death, two versions, also –

the one, all six-foot-tall of him rolled on his side

and bent in awkward, fetal curl,

hooked in blue-tinged dark to chirping, electric machinery;

the other, seated on ivory leather couch, in sunlight drenched,

a shotgun gripped, tripod-like, between legs and knees;

his long toes feel and finger the trigger’s curve.

In both cases, one consistency –

he is alone.

And yet,

and yet

Together we walk this long road of soft pale soil

that uncurls toward the huddled town below.

As that unknown hamlet slowly resolves,

he tells me of his death,

his dying;

of the messages he left for her

– the youngest –

to find.


Scrawled in small, cramped hand on slips and scraps of paper,

neatly folded into white envelopes to be opened

– one each year –

on his death day’s anniversary.

We walk together, he and I.

I hear his voice — a rasp against my ear —

and the ocean’s waves that break themselves

against gray sea walls.

And, as in the way of dreams,

though separated by time, location, distance,

I see her

– the youngest –

in open room full of soft-lit windows;

see her lean against that same couch of ivory.

Though separated,

I see her finger run beneath an envelope’s flap and

break the seal.

Excitedly, she reads;

while he and I reach the outskirts of that sleepy town.

Here, the air smells of salt and sea.

Here, the wind finds my hair, my cheek.

And here, undeterred, he walks beside me;

but no longer does he


— C.Birde, 8/20