Sketching

across the paper’s

width and length

in rows

of two, four, three;

sketching them stacked

like great scoops

of ice cream.

Eyes.

One atop another

piled.

Eyes

of melting,

cartoonish

grotesquerie.

Eyes,

staring –

wide and sightless –

from beneath lashes

curling,

spidery.

Eyes

of enlightenment;

of innocence and

judgment.

Eyes

of inner wisdom.

Eyes

of the ego’s “I”.

Those windows

of the soul.

Indeed,

indeed.

Sketching,

sketching

row upon row,

until she takes

the sheet of paper,

nods admiringly,

and,

wielding scissors –

silver,

shining –

slices through

the topmost row,

slices

right through

that row of eyes –

wide and sightless –

straight through

their unblinking

pupils and

irises.

 

— C.Birde, 1/20

 

 

Grasp

the stem

(fibrous, silken, strong)

and pull

(gently, gently).

Liberate

those pale,

luminescent orbs

clustered

like an oyster’s

hoard of pearls,

like static will-o-wisps

and opaque full moons

in miniature

cast.

Prize them clear

(loose, out, up)

of the dark earth’s

grasp.

Shake them

(tinkling, ringing, chiming)

free of clinging soil

and lay them

(gently, gently)

within the cradle

of your palm

where they glow,

radiating as-yet

unhatched

light.

 

– C.Birde, 1/20

 

 

Blue. White. Green.

Sky and clouds.

Rolling hills and lawn and trees.

These three brilliant, dazzling colors

dominate, as far as the eye can see.

To the right,

stroked between heaven and earth,

a long, low white house, modern and

featureless but for horizontal slabs

of black reflective glass

stretched like unspooled, undeveloped

film along the length of its recumbent

form.

From this structure’s back protrudes –

like the sweep of eyelet bridal train –

a semicircular deck of wood,

white, as well, but of a faded, ashen shade,

its brilliance muted, bleached

away.

And she, me, I.

The interruption.

Standing amidst this color scheme –

serene blue and white and green;

in striped, knee-high socks of every hue –

purple, pink, pale-yellow, orange, and

chartreuse;

one hand holds a bar of soap –

lavender-scented,

lavender-paper wrapped,

lavender, in both tint and tinge.

Standing there,

breeze gently lifting the hair

from our shoulders as we break the bar

in two and slip a brittling half into each sock’s

pulled-high, ribbed, fine-woolen

cuff.

I, me, she –

the lone bright-colored slash of verticality

in the entire placid,

tri-hued,

reclining,

scene.

 

— C.Birde

 

 

 

Hear,

overhead,

his heels fall –

like iron mauls –

against the floor.

Hear him rage

and roar.

His fury –

unleashed,

unfocused,

unfettered –

tumbles headlong

down the stairs,

bruised,

concussed,

wounded.

How long

can this continue?

can he maintain such

fiery wrath?

How does the ceiling

not crack?

his feet not break through

both plaster and

lath?

“Tell him.”

She speaks from across

the kitchen’s tiles,

from the safety

of self-imposed exile,

where,

with studied care,

she avoids your eye.

“Tell him how

he makes you feel.”

In a breath,

in a beat

he is there.

Toe to your toes,

towering and tall,

from roiling anger,

looming;

and all words have

vanished,

swallowed up

in a gasp,

in a gulp.

Wounded,

concussed,

bruised.

Tell him.

 Tell him.

What she could not

and never would.

That his anger –

unfettered,

unfocused,

unleashed –

returns you

to fearful daze

of childhood;

that his roar blinds

and numbs and

strips away all

thought.

Choose

your words with care

and, while so choosing,

realize, of a sudden,

the surrounding,

enveloping

silence.

Realize

you have found,

at last, your voice,

and have already

spoken.

 

 

— C.Birde, 11/19