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.

For further reading:

Browse the contents of 42opus Vol. 7, No. 3, where "Flock of Me" ran on October 13, 2007. List other work with these same labels: poetry.

42opus is an online magazine of the literary arts.

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