Asleep or awake…

In liminal space,

she sits –

gauze covered –

on the bed’s edge

Considering

Reflecting

Her form,

a map of contours –

shoulders & hips,

waist & spine,

profile;

Her hair,

a knot at the base

of her neck;

All

softly blurred under

film-white layers

as she shifts,

lowers

d

o

w

n

atop the coverlet

gently beside me,

entirely at ease

in liminal space

Neither asleep

nor awake…

— C.Birde, 11/21

On the left hand –

hand of the moon,

the feminine, the emotions,

& the hidden;

On the ring finger –

finger of the heart line,

of creativity, beauty,

& love;

The nail here –

     of this hand & this finger –

has grown

to extraordinary length,

& when touched,

tilts –

     painlessly –

from its bed, removed.

Inspect, at eye level,

this two-and-a-half-inch

semi-circular keratin shaft;

Inspect the convex,

empty bed;

Realize –

astonished –

each, with soft gray lint,

is filled.

Reseat the nail –

     carefully –

refit it to its powdery,

dust-gray base;

With the right hand,

gingerly place & press it,

thus;

Held now –

     nail of the left finger,

     of the left hand –

to its original place

(a temporary fix,

at best).

— C.Birde, 10/21

Confinement

cast in barren walls;

smooth-polished floors

of wood

A spartan space

Devoid of comfort,

coloration,

but for a single blue-gray

drape that stirs –

alive with motion –

draws attention

to stretched-wide

sliding doors of glass

Step through…

(bare feet exposed

to metallic bite

of the threshold’s sill…)

& pass without…

A cloistered deck awaits….

(O, secondary ruse…)

Gaze up, neck craned…

Witness to impossibility,

to the unprecedented –

A looming verticality

of storm-gray water…

A towering sea-wall

barricade that sways & ripples,

looms & eddies,

a-swim in motion overhead…

Extend a hand…

trace white curls & lines

of foam…

touch small leaves of ochre

caught in spiral currents,

& recognize…

(with sudden indrawn breath)

the trap’s new-altered

height & width & length.

Although recast, reshaped,

confinement yet

     remains.

— C.Birde, 10/21

Before

before I

before I can

   comprehend the

nature

nature of

nature of this

   funerary scene &

extend

extend my

extend my offer

   of service …

The scenario, in its entirety –

options, challenges, solutions –

have all efficiently been

noted, discussed, addressed

with no need of my aid &

I can

I can only

I can only stand &

   observe

from a distance

of un-necessity.

— C.Birde, 8/21

Our hands move

Stir the dark

Reflect the light

emanating from her skin,

from the dusky spill

of her hair

Where she sits –

luminous, aglow –

in a high-backed chair

carved of ebony

Our hands –

pale moths winging

about her flameless

conflagration –

shift the aromatic

dark

Aflutter

Replicating her glow,

her light.

— C.Birde, 8/21

No sooner

had they fallen,

that trembling sphere

of cicadas held immobile

& enmeshed in spider’s

webs;

Fallen & scattered

in arcane pattern strewn

over squares of white linen

spread over tar-papered

roof;

An arcane pattern

of gleeful arthropods

rewriting their future

as unbound individuals &

collective;

No sooner

had they fallen

into newfound freedom,

than they began,

in a grinning profusion

of pale pink petals,

to  b l o o m.

— C.Birde, 7/21

Leave them.

Leave them here,

near the white marble

countertop –

     paring knife

     sweet potato

     woman.

Attend, instead,

to the anger,

the flint & spark

of charged words.

Attend

the grief & fear,

the ceaseless fall

of tears.

Follow this unhappy tide –

     jaw set

     ears attuned

     heart clenched

Follow

toward the table

spread with white cloth,

chairs pushed in

to contain that

which lies beneath,

within…

Avoid

the hand that shoots out

from this self-made cage

to grasp at calf,

at ankle…

Grasp

that hand & s-q-u-e-e-z-e

until those fine,

timeworn bones protest,

the hand itself struggles

to retract…

Demand –

     c-r-u-n-c-h,

     c-r-a-c-k –

demand

that he release the child

he traps beneath.

In exchange,

release your grip.

Exit,

tousle-haired child

weeping against

your neck’s curve,

balanced on

your hip.

— C.Birde, 7/21

Within this timeworn house

of haphazard architecture,

tilting floors & walls leaning

so corridors & large rooms

are winnowed down to small:

A funeral for one who,

in waking life, yet thrives;

while the other pair who,

beyond the dream’s confines

have truly died,

remain alive & utterly besotted

of the two young charges

fostered to their joyful care.

Kneeling,

see how she ruffles their dark hair?

wraps them in embrace,

in smiles & warm kindness?

Strange time to transfer

obligation of such import.

A funeral…

dull ebony coffin stretched

in final demarcation

of the vaguely sloping room;

symbol of thwarted Fates,

of fortunes turned…

And I –

witness to both fact & dream;

to contradiction;

Ghost-like,

I roam the altered account,

unaddressed,

unmarked,

unseen.

— C.Birde, 6/21