HALF A DOZEN
There is something to be said about the signature of some mornings,
a scrawl of life returns through the blackened blinds
and the cold in the room breaks, heat
ebbing and flowing and thawing the splinters.
Soon I’m feeding the half a dozen
brown birds, bopping along the cement stones
and skidding through the legs of plastic chairs.
They are so much like the pigeons in the park,
picking up rocks and pretending they are crumbs.
I’m facing this tree that has a dozen tiny trunks,
bees are blinking on the cylinders of green.
There is something to be said about the signature of other mornings
when the wind breaks impatiently
against a thousand fortresses,
and mothers in robes thrash the windows closed.
We are drugged by the glacial dust,
our jaws are unhinged and open and sore, ingesting
the undying itch of losing too much.
But this is not one of those mornings
and the sky is best whittled one piece at a time,
the glass falls away and shatters, maiming the bathroom tiles.
I have already started
by squeezing your enormous shadow
red-faced through every window sill.
See more of Michaela’s work at miaamcgrath.tumblr.com.
Submit your work to Cacti Fur: cactifur.com/submit