The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Simon Perchik

*

This bird must hear the blood

all day nesting in its gut

slit open to catch rainwater

draining some roof the way your hand

dries from the balcony half feathers

half seaweed—it listens

for waves, each one now motionless

bending over the other

—two deaths from one botched egg

though there are no leaves to fall

to gather more sky for the flight back

and you are singing alone, slow

getting the words wrong

caressing its belly with the same breeze

now bathing it—you rinse the blade

still sharpening itself on its shadow

back and forth till the sea

no longer reflects just one sky

stranded, unshapely—a monster

covered with wings already stone

clinging to you even over water.