13 October 2007 | Vol. 7, No. 3
Flock of Me
As I lie napping, you draw back
the curtain of my shirt and pick
the lock to open the door to
an enormous room filled
with all manner of flapping bird
instead of a meaty heart.
Guinea hens call their young
with a metallic screech, and chickens cluck
and lay down rules that none follow.
What you have been taking for words
are just chattering and ruffling and squawks.
It doesn't mean I don't love you.
I offer you this flock of birds
always pecking at each other:
they're up to a whole heap of racket.
About the author:
Dax Bayard-Murray grew up on a hillside overlooking farms in the Virgin Islands. He left for Boston in 1993 to become a linguist. He never quite got around to it. Dax now lives on a hillside with an Irishman who smokes a pipe and a dog who limps.