my tired legs–
the old poet said
as his long body crumbled into ash
I’ve always praised–
he shouted, and rolled his eyes back
so I looked up– nothing– a ceiling, a cloud
same as before, only now
I was cradling his head
as I had long dreamed of doing
only praise ever helped–
he’d loved women, I’d heard,
so I took off my shirt
two pale birds flew out
his wife slammed the gate
the poet, possibly dying,
was not looking,
why was I there?
to save myself maybe:
the poet suffering and calling out something-
go little ones!
and out they flew unfolding
their paper wings making a
one two three as they landed
and alighted in the trees
their restless fluttering
bright above us on the sand
my two darlings, my woman’s “free gifts”
flitted around what had been
in shadow
so that by dawn
I’d almost forgotten him and an old
campfire song rose in my throat instead
kum bye ya my lord
kum bye ya–
a long night, the poet
suffering and calling out something–
the an old campfire song–
a vast fluttering—
my own heart was singing by itself