Poets Love Their Birds

Poets love their birds.

When I study poetry,

there’s always a dove,

a sparrow,

a gull—

literary wings. Unoriginal.

But what of the hunger?

The alley cat,

eyes glowing,

something more sinister.

The rat gnawing on a Tampa Bay Times

that no one bothers to read,

sniffing the edges of forgotten things.

We cradle pain in our palms

like we showcase a firefly,

only one time—

because after this flight

I’ll never hunger again.

I taste the dry roots,

I drink the ink,

extract the pulp

from every jagged bite,

feeling my chest crack.

Poets love their birds.

I’m convinced by pages of dirty fingernails,

dug into ink and earth,

and taste the chiseled pulse

of everything alive.