Bird Call, Wave

Wife, my husband
said. Husband. The ocean

through the shades, motion
and light—the near call

of the bird we had begun to call
the 4: o'clock bird.

Then something else when I opened
my hand and turned

to the window side of the bed
where he had moved,

having drawn the sheet, cold
and welcome, across my shoulders.

Better to hear the waves.
Better the bird's cry

released the way a spondee's
struck sound is meant

to be given and given—not sweat
and mouth. Not the orchid

farmed and cut. No sound but the bird
and the sea, and no bird

alone but eye to eye. And then the praise
that was the sea. And then the wings.

Copyright © 2006 Laurie Lamon All rights reserved
from Northwest Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission