You’re not really a little bird
anymore, are you? You’ve grown
tall. You choose where to go,
when to eat, what to breathe.
You say, “No,” a lot these days.
You limp, too. When
did all that start, little bird?
Your eyes don’t seem connected
to anything anymore. You curse
and scowl, let your stomach ache,
let your body reek. You shiver
at night, little bird, and curl up
alone in the grass, wonder
when your next warmth
will come. You are bruised
along your ribs. Why?
Your eyebrows are shaved.
Why? You called yourself
a faggot to my face. Why?
Do you remember that wintertime
is just around the corner, that we get snow?
Do you remember throwing snowballs
not so long ago and slush leaking
down your shirt? Do you remember,
Toe Good Poetry - November 3, 2013