The Birds


Their halos are on backwards, drooping faces
auroraed in black raspy fibre, claws
catching at skin like scourging fibre balled
in the back of my throat ’til I can cough
it up (without Sister Agnes spying).

They keep bringing me here, and they keep on
bringing me vegetables, loveless smudges
chewed and swallowed and regurgitated.
This is not good for me, not like chocolate
gateau from a purple box, not like home.

A scared child

By D Sharon Pruitt, via Wikimedia Commons


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s