I am eagle; don't be fooled by red silk <br />heels that sound so much like clanking clay <br />on hardwood floors where you and I one night <br />did lay when there was no heat left <br />to warm a chilling breast, <br />when your dense chest fell wet on mine. <br />I found a feather when you left, <br />it lay upon a pillow drenched in you. <br />Perhaps it was inside. It matters not, <br />as I have since then eaten it <br />and cannot prove to you that <br />it did, in fact, exist. <br /> <br />Before I'd ever heard your name <br />or pictured how you might have looked, <br />before I'd seen your constant face -- <br />the one that waits inside dark eyes <br />to see if I can truly fly, or if instead <br />you might just plant my pinioned feet <br />into your waxy wood-grained floorboards, <br />making plumage turn to twigs that dangle <br />down a perfect fruit which you could pluck <br />from your soft bed while I grew old and weary <br />(but I was eagle; I grew light and wild) -- <br />long before I'd brushed your flesh, these wings <br />had taken me to heights much higher than those red <br />silk shoes, those platforms to your dreamworld.<br /><br />C.J. Sage<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/birdsong-2/
