Rosa Canales
Birdsong for the Moon
He says that I cannot love
Like I cannot eat, that I am a bird
Picking at my food, stale crackers
And musty cheese, and at our silence,
Scraping together pieces of lint
And tired laughter. A nest to rest these bones.
But he knows nothing of what happens
At night, an open window and how I open
My mouth when she comes.
The moon at my lips, a scallop melting
In my mouth. Fried and buttered,
Marinated for hours in a pot behind the sun.
She swirls her hips—skin stirred
And steeped in the drizzle of a summer
Breeze, her flesh filling the lonely cavity
Between my thighs. This, he thinks
He understands when I curl into the warmth
His chest provides and peck his neck bloody,
But he cannot feel how I sink my teeth
Into hers—sizzling and translucent, the flesh
Of glowing nightmares. Rock my bony hips,
Hold her hand until she is peeled back
With the yellow skin of morning,
And I am left to gather my nest,
To rise with his lips—the bitterness
Of the day coating my mouth like fish oil.
Like I cannot eat, that I am a bird
Picking at my food, stale crackers
And musty cheese, and at our silence,
Scraping together pieces of lint
And tired laughter. A nest to rest these bones.
But he knows nothing of what happens
At night, an open window and how I open
My mouth when she comes.
The moon at my lips, a scallop melting
In my mouth. Fried and buttered,
Marinated for hours in a pot behind the sun.
She swirls her hips—skin stirred
And steeped in the drizzle of a summer
Breeze, her flesh filling the lonely cavity
Between my thighs. This, he thinks
He understands when I curl into the warmth
His chest provides and peck his neck bloody,
But he cannot feel how I sink my teeth
Into hers—sizzling and translucent, the flesh
Of glowing nightmares. Rock my bony hips,
Hold her hand until she is peeled back
With the yellow skin of morning,
And I am left to gather my nest,
To rise with his lips—the bitterness
Of the day coating my mouth like fish oil.