Pulse

This is not how hearts begin
to beat, in twos
sitting in trees. Soaked birds say
we're cold, and go inside.
No one around us has a problem
breathing. Whole branches
collapse under the weight of ice
and skin. Nations cave
in the time it takes a heart to stop
beating. And what of surrender?
The beggar's touch?
The beating of a bird's wings
can sound like the start
of nothing. And how would we know?
The birds outside sound like birds.
I think I should record them.
I walk to rapture,
or the script that calls itself rapture,
or the pigeon who tells me
his name, but even this
is a stumbling upon, what strange rooms
play for music. We listen
for a reaction and are warm
enough. Our nest
is more a forgotten bed than a nest,
a quilt that feels like
bruised knees, swollen lips,
everything. This could be called
a memory, which feels,
sometimes, like the beating of a drum.

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Copyright © 2011 Stacy Kidd All rights reserved
from Bateau
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission