My Heart Is A Birdcage Opening

I kiss your photograph each morning and you

are alive.

I was four

in my t-shirt that said

‘Daddy’s little devil’.

And then I was twelve.

My diary records the momentous

thrill of boys.

I fell in love with

my longing for them,

and sometimes

their sullen lips.

I have written before,

of the cockatoos that flew

from my chest,

at seventeen,

beating their wings in a frenzy

of escape.

Words spoken like ambulance sirens,

and other soft as petals exhaling

Flowers, wound into my hair

and then for so long,

an absence.

So many things to glide over… this happened, then that.

Golden, spectacular, majestic things, and grimy, muddy, silt-on-the-bottom-of-the river parts.

The times where life twisted within its own small hurricane, and suddenly I am flying with a new pack of birds.

The bliss of small hands becoming bigger than my own.

Of people leaving me, forever. Of finding you, forever. How I make the memories last, is by sticking them to the lining of my veins and bleeding them into the walls of my heart.

Her, on the edge of the bed, smiling so sweetly I felt my heart crack. A kiss is never final, if you can still feel it.

I will always pick flowers for the ones I love. Please remember me amongst the wisteria, calendula and phlox.

out of my bones.

You are scattered

like dna blood spatter

- deep in my marrow

you are there.

We are all made

of dark carbon dead stars,

the brightness that once was,

settled like molten ash

around our hearts.

If there was a way

to pearl stitch you

out of me,

I would turn you into

the most glorious cape,

and claim victory

over myself

as a land unconquered,

learning to balance on sharpened flint

with our honeycombed edges

spliced cleanly

like a hot knife to butter.

We are arms-open, hearts-pulsing

but we are also the small sticks

placed precariously by birds

building nests for their young.

We are clouds wafting on a windless day

but we are also blackened and filled

with sharp-edged hail.

And we are grateful for this,

for knowing that the world is made

of sand, silt, and diamonds,

of iridescent wings of beetles,

and fang-toothed creatures

and also

reflections

bouncing around

like a child

on a trampoline.

Nothing hurts when our skin

is soft and resistant

like newly baked cake,

its edges

springing right back

at the warm touch of a hand.

My eyes peer through

smudged windowpanes

yet the world is

strangely vibrant.

I don’t know what it means,

but I am stuck inside,

the way thunderstorms

and lightning look beautiful,

but you watch them

wide sky,

relentless sun,

the dry back legs of crickets

rubbing anxiously

in branches of encumbered gums.

I am from hot winds

on a cloudless day,

of salt encrusted skin

as river water evaporates

with the shock

of surrendering to summer.

I come from

the comfort of night

finally falling

so we can rejuvenate

like wilting flowers

coming back to life.

I am

hot-blooded,

and made for lying

lizard-like on warm stones

my muscles melting

into something soft,

something momentarily

not of

in the slant of light

gilding my coffee.

In the expressiveness

of the wind

playfully toying my hair.

In the birds

dangerously

yet carelessly

diving headfirst

before alighting.

Aren’t we all daylight

and phosphoresence?

Fractals and parts

but wholly

indomitable

a rapturous

conglomeration

of cells

masquerading

The thud

of organs stopping still

and the breath in my nose

pausing

as a way out

panic

flying with bat wings

across the night sky.

I know I can drop

to the ground

and it will hold me,

I know,

we are all walking around

with the earth at our back.

Sometimes there is

the salvation of rainbows

to cover us

in prismic beauty;

fractals we are,

and elemental,

garnet-blooded, carbon-hearted.

The edge of our skin,

a cliff, tempting us

as we speak,

a collective wail,

a deep sea haunting

as tortured as trees,

lost without their leaves.

We pulse with pain,

finding its way

through our throats

the way waves succumb

to the shore.

After all, it is home

where we grieve,

and delight

in the smallest of signs

that we know,

with our full lungs

and our tender minds,

that the walls of our hearts

are made of this.

We are lovingly mended

by our dinner table sighs

and our glances

that carry light

like fireflies refusing

to die.

We are bold, and afraid

and we long with the parchedness

of deserts

to be small again.

The tiny nest

on my back porch,

and you, flying lightly

The delight of soft air,

the sweet whiteness of fur

against the bend of my leg.

Breathe slowly,

like a cloud moving

subtly

across the sky.

Hum, if you let yourself,

a reminder that you

are soulful

even if your lungs

are a still pond

where dragonflies alight you

like dangerous visitors.

I carry myself

with the gentleness

bestowed on those

new born,

and I laugh at the way

my dogs stand guard

like sentinels,

our bed an island fortress