Originally published in Popshot Magazine
Issue 16 2015
After the first read of the poem, the concept came to me immediately. From past experience, I have found that instinct and inspiration often not always produce the strongest results.
Now is the time for mending,
the season I shed the dead
skin of old love,
so the heart can once again
become a living thing.
I have been made small in the wake
of winter; I feel feverish & weather-worn
by a particularly soggy spring.
But there is a wren that flutters
inside my chest, trilling
louder than the murmurs of love
that doesn’t stay.
I feel the click of its beak
as it chips away at my sternum,
for the moment it breaks
through the bone
and hits the nerve that will send me
diving into the summer
with speed and delicacy
in search of new modes of destruction,
singing I have found a trajectory
that is my own.