Over on Instagram, I've been nanopoblano'ing as well, posting a poem a day. The first 15 days, I tried to integrate a bird into every poem. The second half of this month, I am including a beverage in each. You can follow along at @rawra.avis.
Here are five favorites from the first half:
I origami myself into you,
a busted starship,
93 billion light-years thick.
You promise we
will not sinkhole me,
cannot blackhole you,
so I moonsail through
your peacock-galaxy
where your palms are hold,
and stars are gold,
and we are old,
and new,
and I am in love
with your sky-ocean
waving over my body,
Lifting my small wings.
Silver rings
orbit your tide,
reflecting onto us
as we glide
our way
through
galaxies.
How do I tell the boy
I am magpie before witch,
and witch
before woman.
How do I tell the boy
he is boy before man,
Good man.
He could build a warm house to treat me.
Good man.
He would gild the cage that keeps me.
But I gather my own nest,
and all I need to hold me safe,
is a tree.
I fly away,
and the only way to call me home,
is to be
a tree.
How do I tell the boy
I can't witch hands to branches,
and I wouldn't
if I could.
Home must be a place of untreated magic.
A root I can bring my spells to.
A nature I can rest my flight on.
How do I tell the boy,
who does not have magpie eyes,
who cannot see past my witch,
how do I tell the boy
I am a thing with wings?
I fly away.
My love's the orange in every sun,
the blues of birds above.
My love's a citrus-stricken sky.
My love's a mourning dove.
My love's the Gray in every moon,
the flight of feathers done.
My love's the rain after it pours.
My love's a mourning one.
Art by @snappingturtlearts
Black plumes
hold me
safe in sleep,
from nightmares
where I am
birdseed buried.
Mouth full of caw,
I beg for voice
to fall
from feathers:
float back
to bark and tree,
and tree and nest,
and nest and bite,
His falcon heart
makes mice
of my soul,
scooping us to sky
I am not meant to fly;
swallowing
me
whole.