after The Porcelain Bird by Jonathan Wonham
In stilldark mornings
he tells stories children waking with
bedtime tales their parents
in the night asking to be
put to bed by them faces
like clocks in rooms with unlighted
lamps and hands
like stories pull the graying fraying wordclothes
bedwords to brave and naughty chins.
I am the porcelain bird.
I cannot tell the difference between girls
and boys, they are either ends of
a chiral from a storying catalyst. Just as
I spiral from poet to parent through the closed
doorways of sleeping rooms
my voices unite somewhere under the quilted
dream flesh and moments.
words for April
9 hours ago