Dear Artist,
This piece reminds when I was little, I found a songbird bleeding from its mouth
under my window. Lost direction. My first deathtouch. First brush. Choke (d)
chirp. I almost wrote deathfest. I almost wrote chestchirp. I almost wrote birthflap.
I almost wrote chickflick. I laid the robin in my barbie case, handmade ruby boas,
and matching dress to mine for nest. Where did I even get the courage, birdgerms
hopping spirit dying all over me. (Will you not stay with me for one night longer.) I
was saving an orange in my pocket, but I dropped it right on the dying bird. Bonk.
It bounced. I needed another drippy weeping fruit to childponder kidgrieve this
ebbing/fully edging/life, but I return magic no bird Lazarus fled my orange, miracle
spattered, abandoned, empty nesting amidst the feathers left. I blinked both bright
eyes. I missed it all. Sincerely.
