Poem 11 I had almost written you out of the poem. There must have been some intention but I almost didn’t notice. All along, radio waves keeping the surface clear felt like the painless important thing to do, despite the muted clang of each successive wave striking metal-- like whoever controls the wind blowing a balloon out of reach while you were looking the other way. And now I’m uncertain with relief. Stillness coexists with grace in discordant symbiosis as if they were two words glued to opposite sides of a yellow candy
heart. In science textbooks, hippos travel on the backs of dutiful little
birds leaving entire generations with deformed spines, unable to migrate. Would people be embarrassed to see their own faces while driving or grocery shopping— unaware, intently focused, self-absorbed, absent? Frowning, mouths half open, chins thrust forward at dangerous angles for a better view without all the effort? I will continue to feel sorry for the flattened little sparrows. © Kyra Kane 2006, 2009 |