I ate a songbird for dinner last night.
I wanted to feel the rhythm ribbed.
Resplendence uncaged.
When I held her
between my teeth,
the sky wept
with a Biblical anger.
Rain raging.
I sent her like a dove
to sing signs of life
in the collapsed cavern of my chest –
muted mission territory.
Perhaps while she’s decomposing
down there she will fall
in love with the piper
I ate last week,
sand like grit between my teeth.
Perhaps she won’t reject
the open invitation of his solitude
like I did.
I did not want to confront
the loneliness he revealed,
but it turns out
his body in my chest
gave me companionship
I didn’t know I was missing.
The winged wraiths are good together.
But I am, in fact, still alone.
Why is this consummation,
a devout devouring,
still unfulfilling?
I will feast
on feathered flesh –
maybe a sacrificial dove
or the second robin of spring
(how could I take the first?) –
until the new fledgelings –
part piper, part song –
now a integral part of me,
carry us up
to face the grace
of a generous god
who begs me to take him in
until he fills
every cave and grotto
of my longing.
I look forward to changing
for good.
Published in Issue 3 of Vermillion, literary magazine of the English Department of The Catholic University of America.