Little Bird
       

A bird perches on the rail
of the baby's crib, huddles
as though buffeted by wind
and rain. I've seen it, nights,

from the dark corner
of my eye: size of a blackbird
but all grays washed
with a hint of blue.

When I look directly
it flits into a confusion
in the rods and cones,
and I stare until the dark

unfolds, wing by wing,
into nothing but a faint
translucence over the smudge
of her sleeping head.

The bird sings to her in clicks
and squawks when it thinks
no one's listening. I've heard it,
my ear pressed hard to the door—

a song like no song, voice
a hinge, or a chain dragging
the pavement, and the baby's ear
open like a night flower

thrust from the narrow
bed of her unfixed skull.
How can I tell what roots
beneath those tender plates

shifting like thoughts
that can't find a way
to be said? Mornings,
the baby clicks and squawks

when I wake her in a language
she chooses not to speak.

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Copyright © 2012 Corey Marks All rights reserved
from The Radio Tree
New Issues Poetry & Prose
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission