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For The Bird

Bird Heart


My mother has a bird heart

ferocious and organic

bloody like a severed limb, it bleeds

gashes dealt with a machete.


On the outside there are feathers.

There is no order to these feathers.

Once soft as down, they now sprout erratically

in plumes of pink, magenta, gold.


We watch without speaking.

Imperceptible, almost, the way they flutter as she sighs

an exhalation of deep, warm breath.

Now, when she is happy.

I don’t know how it was before.


With a person I love most—

the products of her bird heart imagination—

we see a world of animals; some sexy, some horrific.

Since we learned to laugh, everything is funny

especially the magpie with a slick, wet head

like at home someone licked it clean.

A ferocity of actions prompted by the pumping of a heart

gouged with feather-spears.


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