bird song
published in zoeglossia
jamie hale
each winter convinced that i am dying
the signs point to no the crow balanced
on my hospital bed laughs i
do not laugh back it’s how the days
curl in on themselves wincing from cold
they do not wish to be out after dark
and suddenly
my scalp is bleeding it must be the bird
or you it is hard to tell men from winged
demons you ponderous you slick with oil
and rotted fish maybe i become a bird myself
gash the scalp of the child. who does not wish
to be out after dark who does not wish
to become a bird