Let the Birds in

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

social justice poem

Let the Birds in

 (Inspired by: [listen mother, he punched the air: I am not your son dying] by D.A. Powell)


hear me, his punch swung flailing: I am your dying child

with dawn and the dry sun: those alive are adored


the tiny hand, blue bones, were not from a doll

a tag on flesh.  that's how to tell.  and dried blood in fingerprints

hollowed cheeks; empty lungs

the needle, cold, going in, sometimes feeling her sides jolt

she felt almost nothing, her mind in darkness, yet it was everything

nerves crashing lightning in her bones; splitting her soul

and the world did as it pleased


the dark day choked: but nobody noticed

the metal continued to bustle: screech.  blinding

and the lights, won't they go out.  can a quiet moment pierce us?

like a silent angel of death.  and the misery would end

but not the guilt


grey scarred walls, and dirt-coated cuts

garbage floating and skipped.  unfeeling ankles and toes

pass through the empty alleys, mother


a horror, the stabbing a heaving vitriol.  the loveliness and slake

mother who brought me here, muddler: open the window.  let birds in

Submitted: December 31, 2013

© Copyright 2022 Sabrejack. All rights reserved.

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