Songbird
She cried.
Her blood wasn't oxygenated enough.
It was too rich;
steepled from her veins
in a room all too quiet.
I never wanted to hear that sound.
She wanted to fill those empty
empty, empty
pages of the room
with the songbird making nest
in her warbling throat
but those uninked pages suffocated it.
She carries its desiccated husk
in a cavern
in her chest
next to the pigeonhole with her pulpy heart.
No song, no more
no composer but me--
a bastard's bardwiting for martyrdom's glow.
The room was too quiet and
she filled it
with blue black godless screams.
Sobs rendered blood and body useless
bifurcated lung from lung
seam from seam
down her sides.
Sometimes my head is sterile and quiet
and then I think
(rich blood)
of the day the songbird died.
And she fills that too.