Normal, this nervous riff. This ruinous rancour.
Sitting and pecking. My bird heart waits.
For him and them. The set of three. Just
down the way. Bargaining. Imprinted
with kicks and schemes. This territory
they've crossed so fast. Short of breath, out of
means. Ready to bloody the next. Fore-
boding swooping in. Weary. Pleading
for swift return to sorrows wrested.
From a thousand metres, these dark pools
seem sweet waters. Oil slick. Easy to
get caught up in their mephitic waves.
I'm not indifferent. Out on this
limb. Stripping bark and feigning patience.
Ren Pike grew up in Newfoundland. Through sheer luck, she was born into a family who understood the exceptional value of a library card. Her poetry has appeared in Train, NDQ, IceFloe Press, and Juniper. When she is not writing, she wrangles data for non-profit organizations in Calgary, Canada.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan