He makes mother’s milk:the black-eyed dove has flown.
He mashes nut, apple and soy
strains it through my paisley scarf
pours the spew in a syringe
shakes it to make it warm
pecks my cheek
puts the wilted babies in my palm.
Jelly heads, tiny tapered rumps, and spindly proto-wings want to bloom.
They suck and strive. A black eye bud opens one crack, drunk on a sliver of light.
Their crops balloon, they turn purple and plop, yawning out needle tongues.
.
1 comment:
A gorgeous poem, like the poetess herself.
Post a Comment