[ Also a partly found poem after Brian Doyle’s Joyas Voladoras; with thanks to Lina Sagaral Reyes for the link ]
I don’t know whose translucent wings those are
twitching, disappearing into a knothole in the ceiling;
but in the throes of great uncertainty I am
asked to consider the miniature:
– A heart the size of a pencil eraser, beating ten
times a second, hammering faster than we could hear.
– A heart that fuels flights more than five
hundred miles without stopping to rest.
– Hot heart that kisses at least a thousand flowers a day
but cold, slides into a torpor from which it might no longer rouse.
– Oh my constellation of fears, shamed by a wingstroke
smaller than a baby’s fingernail, thunderous as the world’s wild waterfalls.
– Heart like a race car engined by color, buffered
by wind, stripped for nothing but flight.
– Chant of bearded helmetcrests and booted racket-tails,
violet-tailed sylphs and crimson topazes.
– Rosary of charismatic names: amethyst woodstars and
rainbow-bearded thornbills, pufflegs and spatuletails.
– You’ve found me out: I have a bag of tortoise coins. I’ve spent them
like a miser, hoarding each little bit of copper against that one stupendous day.
– I’ve lived mostly alone in the bricked-up house of my heart,
but a wind teeters at the door, smelling of skin and apple breath.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.