When the Jaybird Flies

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1.1              lovers never give much thought
to the faith they put
in the first day of feelings
              that answer to no reason;
because to question is to ask
              why the jaybird flies
according to no season
but the freedom it knows;

1.2              and because it's difficult to imagine
how anything could equal the moments
we were kindling to the night;
              when we touched each other right,
it was certain
that loved right everything
              can bring the poetry,
and the understanding,
and you to life;

2.1              so with the willingness of the moth
to the theme of flame; we burnt
each other out; wings of fire beating
              in a frenzy of undressing;
heated skins speaking
with a constant voice
              that told us we had no choice
in this need that burns again and again;

2.2              but we had thought this loving
would give us a sixth sense;
rather than be an oracle
              that blinds instead, where sight and desire,
like silence, like love
can sometimes be friend or foe;
              as the moth in the flame knows:
love is as inevitable as death,
but it cannot say that either is beautiful
when it shares both in the same breath;

2.3              but those who'd show pity
for the dying moth, have never seen
love burn before its own fire;
              or like a jaybird freed from the city
in which it sings; even when love leaves; it leaves
its song on our tongues
for the rest of our lives;
              knocks out the widest space between our bars,
slipping you through your cage
and dropping you from the highest balcony
              to see if you'll fly,
whilst saving the last laugh
for faith or for irony;

3.1              and we climbed our high-rise storey
of destiny; to reach the edge
of a place where lovers
hang or stand together,
              wondering whether we'd idealised
love or paralysed it with blame
(which so late in the game is as futile
as laying claim on the weather)
              and we found ourselves unhinged;
hinged in between the doors of pros and cons,
opening and closing without compunction;

3.2              yet we hung on; trying to avoid throwing
words like knives that scar the moments;
where even shallow cuts can run deep,
              and some that slowly seep, bleeding
out their life in you, decomposing;
bruising with muted hurt,
              stretching you out on a rack of hate;
pulling in opposing ways,
to knock down the house that love built;

3.3              but our avoidance left spaces
somehow more emptier than before,
destined to become echoes and shadows,
              until they, too, will finally go
from the kerb ways where we used to walk;
where we skipped toe-to-toe;
              kissed as though it were talk;
and where our footsteps once warmed the stone;
              played its games with pace,
hopscotch and kiss chase,
and that ancient race of running to touch home.

Published 24 April, 2011

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