Today's poem is by Stacy Kidd


This is not how hearts begin
to beat, in twos
sitting in trees. Soaked birds say
we're cold, and go inside.
No one around us has a problem
breathing. Whole branches
collapse under the weight of ice
and skin. Nations cave
in the time it takes a heart to stop
beating. And what of surrender?
The beggar's touch?
The beating of a bird's wings
can sound like the start
of nothing. And how would we know?
The birds outside sound like birds.
I think I should record them.
I walk to rapture,
or the script that calls itself rapture,
or the pigeon who tells me
his name, but even this
is a stumbling upon, what strange rooms
play for music. We listen
for a reaction and are warm
enough. Our nest
is more a forgotten bed than a nest,
a quilt that feels like
bruised knees, swollen lips,
everything. This could be called
a memory, which feels,
sometimes, like the beating of a drum.

Copyright © 2011 Stacy Kidd All rights reserved
from Bateau
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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