Poem: The Bird Wants Answers


The Bird Wants Answers

Last night a giant
bird came, ripped
the roof off my house,
plucked me from bed
while my wife still slept.

He was gentle, but still
bird beaks are sharp
and hard, and I didn’t
know if he was aiming
to eat me whole and live.

The flight he took
must have been all night
long: when we landed
there was the beginning
of dawn lighting our surroundings.

He placed me down upon
soft grass, let me rise
again to my feet as he
regarded me in the dark
wetness of his left eye.

He spoke, sudden and sharp:
“how are you?” he asked.
“I have been better, honestly.”
He did not reply, but turned
his head to stare at me from the right.

“How are you?” he asked
again.  I looked at him.
He was only a bird,
repeating what he had
heard someone say.

So it has been now for how
long?  I do not know my way
home, cannot say how far
we flew to come here
or how many days ago.

He loves to speak
though only the one
phrase, says it to me
so much, wishes
me to always answer.

That is why he stole
me, not to eat my body but
instead to talk with,
to ease the loneliness
of unanswered questions.

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