dark feathered birds; foreign alphabet in the guest house


dark feathered birds

small town frenzied charade   a story for every question   lock your name inside

when you whisper   the verbs are guilty of the same flawed thinking

thin dreams and a full moon   grab the stars to keep for a darker night

you are unbound so small   read every travel brochure   map it out

the crows pluck words from old phone lines  they muddle together

translate old conversations into field notes for the existentialists

they have amazingly fine penmanship   rarely argue

they all agree that no one cares about Heidegger

there are layers of what is   like a country fair booth of ring toss

but you have no drift or swerve   you must invent your own logic

trade a sure bet for the lives you do not keep   small scale

like Sunday School Mary Janes with white turned-down sock


foreign alphabet in the guest house

there is an argument that goes on and on

until a meaning that the mind creates

settles in a house with crows and bits of paper

how it really happens   is a truth of sorts

a second language dressed in silver hoops

and old war tunes

you have a constant need for surprise

entertain a foreign alphabet in the guest house

all languid and lace   and no shade

an accident is mostly hearsay

with a cloud flurry of white lies

scraps of evidence without music

the always hungry are at the mercy

of whatever they think they know

dollar store rivalries in the parking lot

but truth will not be framed

not even in heirloom gilt   or rough cloth

with such poor stitching at the seams

bargaining seeps into everything

every one’s childhood goes missing

the way a river will follow itself

Photography Credit: Jason Rice

Linda King is the author of four poetry collections
the most recent –ongoing repairs to something significant (BlazeVOX Books 2017).
Her poetry has appeared in numerous literary journals in Canada and internationally. She lives and writes on The Sunshine Coast of British Columbia, Canada.