The
old lady of Monday afternoon keeps watch in the park
with
her military-grade binoculars.
The
birds of the swamp are active today--
heads
dripping gutter water as Spring cracks its leather whip
at
their colorful backs.
From
five hundred meters she can hardly see their colors.
Just
black and white forms, male and female,
tagging
each other like wedding gifts in a registry.
There
is so much sex,
so
many flapping bits,
it
stands to reason that boy birds,
cousins,
brothers, mothers and sons
be
tripped by the wires of incestual sins
from
time to time.
Older
birds take younger birds
without
their consent,
choking
them in the beaver fever water
as
they seek survival through their progeny.
But
all this woman sees from this distance is
God’s
creatures fluttering in the trees,
fighting
and fucking their way
through
another Garden.
Brianna Ferguson is a writer
and educator located in the Okanagan Valley. Her stories and poems have
appeared across Canada, the U.K., and the U.S.A. in magazines and anthologies
such as Minola Review, Jokes Review, and The Apocrypha Files.
the
Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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