This Is Not The Bluebird Poem
If you read the poem seven times
on an electronic screen of any kind,
computer or telephone, she will climb
out of a digitized hole her verse designed
with each tap of a lowercase “i.” Her wee
fingers the architect of a portal
you would never suspect amidst twee
bluebird imagery that lulls a mortal
into complacency until eyelids
flutter and you might miss a dot of “i”
increase its radius, notice limbs have slid
through gorilla glass, black unblinking eyes,
long legs, last, convey a wraith you can’t outrun.
Be glad you did not read the bluebird one.
The Bluebird Breathes
Spy the shivering bluebird in a drift
of snow. It is alive you only know because
fear agitates its paltry plumes as you lift
it from an icy tomb where it was
resigned to die. It shudders in your mittens
as the sun grows nigh enough to liquify
its intended fate. Some kindness is forbidden
you have recognized too late as it plies
its beak against a rosy cheek, opens
each freckle until crimson droplets meet
to obscure a fleeting humanity.
Flock who wait in dead dogwoods discrete
to devour leisurely, you never see
behind the crimson veil of your own gore
that nurtures beauties you should have ignored.
Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Rhysling nominated sonneteer and a Best of the Net 2020 finalist, the author of a short story collection You Don’t Want This ( Pink Plastic Press), The Stakes (Really Serious Literature) and many more books.
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