She has the same look about her, or so it seems when she tilts her cheek just so and the tides shift, shrink in on themselves so ashamed by her disappointment. Uncanny, how similar she seems reflected beside me.
This name is still an uncertain bird in my mouth, perched at the tip of my tongue when I reach for its fragile feathered body. So small in the hold of my hand it cheeps, cheeps, cheeps and I say Finch, Finch, Finch to the mirror above the sink, check the windows are closed before loosening the grip I have on its wings uncertain if I can make the sound stick.
Write a poem that delves into the meaning of your first or last name.
There is nothing to report. Just cameras whittling time into little pixeled boxes. Behind a curved desk an anchor is just that today, a weight to keep the ship steady focused in on itself, to stop the rigging pulling loose, or port and starboard drifting too far from the bones of each other. The mics only capture seafoam, its hiss, hiss, hiss, on sand as the nothing news drags in and out across our feet.
Write a poem in the form of a news article you wish would come out tomorrow.
The birds build nest from found objects up in the eaves of my house where I have no place to call a home mine. Fragile window-frames of splintered straws, postcard door fluttering off its hinges. I stack these pieces on top of each other, ring the patio table in old newspapers, and build myself something small, contained, a space to fill up with just me and leave no part abandoned. When winter cracks against the garden, steps up to the windows, climbs the brickwork, I understand better why the birds all left when the leaves turned gold. These nests are skins for the shedding, a stripping out of last year’s hide, before the cold can come and take.
Tonight I’m writing for the DVersePoetics Prompt, where we’ve been asked to “write a poem in the first person that compares some trait of ours with something animal”, taking inspiration from Marjorie Saiser’s poem ‘The Print The Whales Make’.