Cuckoo

I nudge the eggs
of not my make,
watch them drop
without a thought—
dead who? dead who?
Who cares? They're
not my make. I'm
cuckoo-true, a blood
and thunder freedom
monger—free what?
from who? Free you,
my boy, from mama
bird and birdie wife
and future brood.
You're free to crack,
to stink, to cook.
You're better off off
the hook, and off
the clock of my off-war
where time is space
and space is time
and both are wound
to wind up mine—
without a wall, what
can hang? Without
the sky, why not fall?
It's all all off, but
I'm in tune. Death
is math. Rest assured
the nest left you.

Copyright © 2005 Larissa Szporluk All rights reserved
from Bat City Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission