Apricot Press

twelve magpies demand
my attention, picking
   mown grass for their parcel of prey.
the grey feather sits discarded
nearby, a pigeon brave enough
   to fly into the tidings’ mob, a casualty.
a three-pronged mischief
boasting across the shorn
   land.
i am a shiny thing to
them. sheep dressed up
   in foil.
spoiling in this season’s air.
a man and i share the same
   cry:
mine – watching the smallest
bird surrounded and hit,
   again, again.
his – a dog, his friend, his
best best man, running head-
   long into a squirrel
and eating it dead. no
remorse. just cautious
   witnesses to these crimes.
seeing what will play. leaving
it be. letting it occur. turning
   our faces when it all gets too much,
and shuddering at the smell.

one day we’ll have a garden
and it will be lush and fruitful
and away from here. we’ll have
a forest of deer who visit in the
springtime and a washing line
with cotton sheets drying in the
breeze. there’ll be trees – all
kinds! – there’ll be bees suckling
pollen and orange flowers and
blue. you will grow something
delicious and i will eat it with my
fingers. the bird-singers will rest
in our branches will hang from
the fence and when it’s nighttime
they will find nests to sleep in;
downy feathers for comfort;
mama’s breast. the sun will set
in the west like we predicted
and this day will be our eden
will be our peace without the
snake. we will make warm meals
from the crops we tend and mend
the holes the serpent bit through.
i will love you and she won’t be
there and this is all i could hope
for: the poems the poems and
everything growing growing in
our garden away from here.

Photo credit: Daniil Komov