Spying like Emily
Sitting on my front porch this morning
amid the squeals and squeaks,
a small bird casts its quick shadow
on the winding sidewalk, patting its flat feet
around the bend of orange red yellow lantana,
darting into a thicket of buddleia, then out;
sharp-angled, well-groomed, sienna-toned
and ribbon-tailed, its beak meant for pecking.
Epitome of chipper, curious and brave,
my friend escapes into the warm hands of a green Friday.
Let’s talk about redemption,
that ole Christian mantra
of torture, crucify & sunrise.
What happens for example:
if Judas returns,
or Herod keeps you,
and you never die?
It’s a pistachio without
that opened curve,
the kernel sealed in a tomb.
It’s that beautiful flower -
the violet, the rose - that never
blooms under your hand.
It’s the sink of dishes,
bills in the mailbox,
the flaking paint, plaster falling.
It’s the uncaught joke, irony missed;
an ill-used metaphor,
that puzzled look.
It’s the lost word, swimming in memory;
it’s the same fantasy again.
Says Sappho: “another day, another suck.”