after Songbird—Haroula Rose
You spring the catch of the cage
with those thumbs, the accident
that separates us. When I fail to fly
away, the ape in you shows, her sorrowing
hoot, a sound passed pure
from your ancestors. I carry mine too,
their old blood fills the trembling cup
of my throat, spills the spool
of song I cannot stop. You have wound
the ribbons of my voice through your aloneness
for wintering months, decided it is now
the only brightness you possess.
I’d swap, I’d trade, your twilight chorus
on repeat, just to sing, to fly away. And I
am just a bird, my tongue near-burst
to find the notes that make you
understand, at least
you did not mate for life.
with those thumbs, the accident
that separates us. When I fail to fly
away, the ape in you shows, her sorrowing
hoot, a sound passed pure
from your ancestors. I carry mine too,
their old blood fills the trembling cup
of my throat, spills the spool
of song I cannot stop. You have wound
the ribbons of my voice through your aloneness
for wintering months, decided it is now
the only brightness you possess.
I’d swap, I’d trade, your twilight chorus
on repeat, just to sing, to fly away. And I
am just a bird, my tongue near-burst
to find the notes that make you
understand, at least
you did not mate for life.
Ankh Spice is a sea-obsessed, queer-identified poet from Aotearoa. His work is widely published internationally in print and online, and has been nominated for Best of the Net and twice for the Pushcart Prize. You'll find him and a lot of sea photography on Twitter @SeaGoatScreams or on Facebook @AnkhSpiceSeaGoatScreamsPoetry.