The Bluest Bower
Song of the Male Satin Bowerbird

It takes years to dismantle yourself until all
that's left are your eyes, planted: a flag,
a flower, a horizontal plastic straw. Some
will call this an ocean scattered, but the architecture
of one's self is never cohesive, though
it shifts like the sea.

The colour blue can sound like anything
when it's perfect. Even a doll's silent
scream--look how it anticipates
the roundness of my gaze. The trick lies

in the chainsaw of a bottle cap, the way
a dance slips like a camera shutter. To be
yourself, you must first learn the world
entirely, reflect it back as though it were

your own. You must know how to always
leave yourself behind, have

somewhere else to go.

Create a website or blog at WordPress.com

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: