Songbird

I ate a songbird for dinner last night. 

I wanted to feel the rhythm ribbed.

Resplendence uncaged. 

When I held her 

between my teeth, 

the sky wept 

with a Biblical anger. 

Rain raging.  

I sent her like a dove 

to sing signs of life 

in the collapsed cavern of my chest –  

muted mission territory. 

Perhaps while she’s decomposing

down there she will fall 

in love with the piper

I ate last week, 

sand like grit between my teeth.

Perhaps she won’t reject 

the open invitation of his solitude

like I did. 

I did not want to confront

the loneliness he revealed, 

but it turns out

his body in my chest 

gave me companionship 

I didn’t know I was missing. 

The winged wraiths are good together. 

But I am, in fact, still alone. 

Why is this consummation,

a devout devouring,

still unfulfilling? 

I will feast 

on feathered flesh –

maybe a sacrificial dove

or the second robin of spring

(how could I take the first?) –

until the new fledgelings –

part piper, part song – 

now a integral part of me, 

carry us up 

to face the grace

of a generous god

who begs me to take him in

until he fills 

every cave and grotto 

of my longing. 

I look forward to changing  

for good.

Winter 2022