the feather duster flicks over a porcelain frog just like that brief moment every few seconds when I close my eyes. maybe I could’ve stopped and seen you better I watch the rooster, a black lump in the thick shade of the pear tree. he has a minimalist tail really just a single plume, you know. there’s something forgotten in all of us and in the dreams I jump out of, flailing onto my pillows, a gasping fish, losing your voice in the dark room, my head is swimming in feathers. we shared our histories and laughter, the patterned froth in coffee cups and chemical infusions. we shared an illness; new plumage, the insatiable baldness of fear. did you know? I piece together his cracked voice; how time slewed like a Dali clock. Insouciant grief perched in hospital windows beaked and savage. I didn’t know. it’s such a long road to forever, no matter how the crow flies.
a cup of feathers
Published
Out of the Cave 
really good, again.
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Thank you!!
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Very poignant 😢
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Thanks Hobbo. 💜
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Bone-crashingly dark, that rooster’s plume, the pillow, the chemical infusion … all over an ordinary cup of coffee. An extraordinary write.
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Thank you Misky. 💜
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Again you touch my heart. So very good.
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Thanks, Ulle. 💜
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It’s hard to find words to describe this one… Powerful and profoundly, achingly sad come to mind, and above all, beautifully written. You have such a gift. Such a moving poem. 🙂
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Many thanks. I am so glad the poem evokes these things for you. Over the last year, writing poetry has become a kind of abstract journal – like printing the shadows of my feelings.
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