My sister found a baby bird— Fallen— Far from the nest. I'm teaching it to fly, She said, swinging it from a rope Tied around its delicate neck. My father caught a catfish From the depths of Hells Canyon. He fought that whiskered bitch For the better part of a Scorching afternoon. The meat he culled from its Fingernail-white bones Was slick and pliant; The muscles of one meant for Cold, dampness and dark— Pulled, unwilling, into the sun. My brother spied a roly-poly— That armadillo of the insect world— Under a rock in front of our Dead grandma's house. He climbed the peaks of our fingers ‘Til we delivered him to a Clump of daylilies sandwiched Between the river and the Windows of the public library, Golden flowers tall as towers in His tiny eyes.
This poem is the result of Foster’s Season 3, “The Art of Modern Writing.” Today, we celebrated the closing ceremony and hit publish, together, on the writing that we worked on for weeks. Thank you to Russell Smith, JG (of Daymaker), and Alice Sholto-Douglas for your insightful, thoughtful feedback.
This is a very deftly worded, deftly turned poem, DJ. Nice work!
Beautiful. Simply beautiful, DJ