by David J. Daniels
(published in Indiana Review, Winter 2013: Vol. 35 No. 2)
I was thinking, about beauty in particular
yours, you who are not by your own admission
beautiful, when the old bird down by the gatepost
started uttering his song, the one I think means
joy, but with an undertone of terror. The bird,
apart from his being a queen in the way he carries
on, is neither beautiful nor pure. I despise the clock
of his ruby throat, and because of the way I’ve watched him
root a metal can for grub, then turn that filth to music,
I have thought to take him down. But with what?
I’ve got no gun to speak of, and once in my hands,
what would I do with that terrible scrap of scarlet?
David J. Daniels is the author of Clean, Winner of the Four Way Intro Prize, and two chapbooks: Breakfast in the Suburbs and Indecency.
Yes, self hangs onto everything. Everything.