Magpies
All I’ve ever wanted is perspective, truth,
leg room. You have to be careful what you say
to magpies—they pick one shiny word out
and starve to keep it in their beaks. I want
to understand confusion so as to combat
the iterations of locked doors. Rust is a slow
friend, but dependable. It’s off-putting, how,
though I rarely battle water, even my largest
clothes shrink, and yet only my cutaneous
shell grows.
Underneath, something shimmers,
but I’ve kept
it hid all these years.
When you see me, marvel not
at the softness of my flesh,
but at the lack of beakmarks.
C.L. Bledsoe
Posted over on Temenos
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