My hand, a birdcage.
Inside, a wren.
I let her craft all of my best poetry.
(you know what they say: wren writing, wren done, wren laughing at a pun)
That first part is not true.
My hand isn’t really a birdcage: it’s a cave. Cozy, dark, closely fit to wren feathered wings.
She likes it there.
But it means I can never open my hand.
Not once.
I believe in perfect moments; a dinner with the right kind of smile; an unexpected laugh; a kiss that is more crimson than red.
But people? People aren’t perfect; and even if they are, they won’t stay that way. We evolve. The best we can hope for is to find someone who evolves in a manner we find interesting and compatible.
yellow-pearled eyes, curled like a dark dandelion puff.
she sleeps
all the time
except when chasing her stuffed monkey
dropping it in my study
(she wouldn’t dare scare up a rat).
wants a place of warmth to rest (blanket, lap, expensive cashmere coat, my face)
hardly worth the trouble
except…
she always purrs when I touch her
doesn’t mind my cloves
sits quietly when I write
naps to the sound of rain with me
hardly ever makes a fuss
silly thing.
There is a low order to hunger. It starts deep, a primal scent that is often lost to the momentum of life.
But sometimes. Sometimes, memory meets possibility and hunger grows claws. It bites cross-wise into the grooved pattern of life, slivers of habitual excuses falling away like wood shavings.
It carves itself in monstrous form, a colossus straddling the paths of desire and prudence.
And it refuses to be diminished, to be made to fit.
And the thunder comes. On its heels, an exhale that asks the next breath to wait. Because that pause is where the world submits.