Danielle Hanson

The bird throws herself

This bird is not flying—she is throwing herself upwards.
First the wings and then the chest; the feet simply dragging behind.
The bird is throwing her soft cooing,
Throwing her downy memory of other forests,
Propelling her light and fragile hunger, her entire birdness into the tree,
Settling in—the evening falling to meet her.

Return to Volume 6.2






All files © 2005-2012 Blood Orange Review