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~Here it comes, a feather.
I prefer this to your leaf.
When I pull it through my palm
it flicks back perfectly into shape.
The grey-white plume resembles a pen
as it does flight and it is
a door that I am jealous of.
We bring the trees in, create a woodland
in our living-room. When the start
of our garden is undetermined
I resemble a crab, the very salmon of it,
shell corroded. All barnacle and salt
to the claw and out of place. I see him better
in the branches, rushing leaves to the ceiling.
He turns like a bark rivulet mapping hazel,
spills hand-spans of rust and maroon,
covers our coffee table. I touch the open
wound where a leaf left him. He tells me
he prefers leaves falling-- when a feather falls
it reminds him of a cat. As evening lifts an owl
through the shadows of the hall I claw
what I can, burrow in the sandy cool
of the kitchen lights like a thief
with a harvest of clams. I hear cormorants
call from the stone range, the shore slowing
on windowpanes. When he sleeps with acorns
and waterfalls I feel coral and waves tumble
our floorboards, the gull’s grey-white wing
leaving a feather to dip the bluest inkwell.
Lia Brooks |
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