Stone Bird

a project thanks to a brilliant friend’s novel-in-progress called Stone Bird. I am reading his work which is somehow creating a poem frenzy in me where his words churn out my poem version of the novel.

If the birds have their way,

the pig and the goat

will always be another creature,

nothing but itself in an oven

Across an ocean.

Here it rains.


Long known by sailors,

ghosts who died at sea,

Every child once found

dreams of home—

Traveling thoasands of miles,

its love-bird will return.


Have you eaten anything, he asked

No, but stay, she responded. And her touch

would have let him go, only

a sea, foolish, bitter.


Like all things of stone, it would not warm.

They would eat together, facing misery,

further in love, then she would leave.

He would call her name.

She would be overcome.


She worried the stone

would offer and not want

gifts to bring

home, her husband.


It’s easy, deception. The walls

Flat and painted. She came

Light as air, and yet

more than anything, strong

in time. Are you okay.

She asked. He responded

Is it breathing? Her wing

on his back. And her looking.


Women are born

knowing languages men

have to learn. The egg, a bird—

One day, a rock he did not



The home of their birth, colder.

They seek parents  and are warmed.

We are all born birds,

white and discontent.


What if it is not born, she asked.

Try again after the world

You won’t leave. I will

Fail forever, succeed.


An egg is just a rock

That could be a bird

I lied, she said. Me too,

I could feel it move.


Before knowing the touch

of another, first light

into the world passes

in an instant. We know

our mother, small creature.


Made of stone, it would reach.

Hungry, tired, we tend

to forget to speak a word,

a single one. Lost parents

leave because they want to.

They still do.


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