Petit Moineaux

i.
the sparrow sings in
the morning on
wind and amber
notes. i know
his voice, know
his song, know
we live in
cages we erect
ourselves, nests where
we hide acres
of beauty. yet
somewhere his ache
is my ache.

ii.
a
true sparrow has
claws, a beak and
two wings.

i
have none of these.

iii.
it is not inertia that keeps me a woman.

gravity will
take my skin,
my breasts
but
not my hair,
not my bones.

my hands will hang
suspended in the air,
as if in flight,
swirling
through the dust motes.

i will feel the sun on
my skin and
wonder
the elegance of
birds in flight.

iv.
a sparrow sleeps two
by two by two.

we have our own dichotomy:
my pair of breasts
pressed to you,
two hands sliding
down vertebrae,
hip bones and lips
touching
two by two
by
two.

v.
i will not be crucified a
Jezebel for red lips nor
ivory skin nor suffer the
lithe tone of sinew etiquette
laughing
with bronze throats and
rose tongues.

we are all of us
flippant and none
as perfect as the other.

vi.
and the sparrow will soar.

throw me from
the window
i
have already fallen.

7/9/11