after Bukowski
the sky were a nest for it,
and it nested? What if your chest
opened and it spilled out of your heart,
finally air, finally?
Or what if it's two bluebirds in your heart
and not one, and what if the bluebird
isn't blue at all but red, ignited, ready to burn,
and what if one of these birds is perched
to fly away and the other is motioning
for you to stay, come closer so I can see you better
better to smell your strange feathers,
better to sing you sad bird songs,
better even to bludgeon your sad heart
looking for a few scraps of birdseed
some sustenance for the coming seasonÉ
What if that bird
bludgeoned your heart
because it mistook you,
too human,
for a cat about to pounce?
Alan Semerdjian