The Year of the Goldfinches
There were two that hung and hovered
by the mud puddle and the musk thistle.
Flitting from one splintered fence post
to another, bathing in the rainwater’s glint
like it was a mirror to some other universe
where things were more acceptable, easier
than the place I lived. I’d watch for them:
the bright peacocking male, the low-watt
female on each morning walk, days spent
digging for some sort of elusive answer
to the question my curving figure made.
Later, I learned that they were a symbol
for resurrection. Of course they were,
my two yellow-winged twins teaching me
to feast on thorns and like it.
Almost Forty
The birds were being so bizarre today,
we stood static and listened to them insane
in their winter shock of sweet gum and ash.
We swallow what we won’t say, Maybe
it’s a warning. Maybe they’re screaming
for us…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, July/August 2017