Poetry
1 min
Jazz Hawk
Renée M. Schell
Is that an egret on the hill
or something plastic flapping
its white wings against the green
or something plastic flapping
its white wings against the green
My heart's an old piece of fruit, the sections
held together by rhythm & thin skin
One bite from the world &
what's in the center flows out—
blood breaks the body's dam
In the middle distance
a flock of—
it must be starlings—
rises & swells, crests & falls
as if coaxed
by an unseen bandleader
I need a good cry but am expecting a call
Two crows menace a hawk out of the cypress
Six more respond to the squawking
like offbeats riffing ink across the cloud cover
A glimpse into Birdland
the hawk dipping toward me
passing the solo
I pick up my phone, wail into it as if it were a sax,
my song of deficiencies, subtext, and all that is green
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