Poetry

Color Into Noise

Up until the 1990s,
they let the peacocks
roam the grounds here,
temperamental as they were,
they would follow you
around the courtyard
and through the gardens.

The birds would
come and go
as they pleased,
flying between
the estate and
the nearby woods,
densely forested
though they were.

In the summer,
you could hear
them out there
most nights,
boys calling out
to the hens,
translating all that
vibrant color into noise.

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Poetry

Zoo Dreams (2 of 2)

I don’t remember the wild,
but my mother does.

She won’t talk about
what happened to her herd,
but her left eye,
sightless and milky white
speaks of a cruel world
beyond these walls.

Home to her now means
not having to wander,
to destroy all the time,
or worry about her children
and she says,
that is worth the space.

Though recently,
she does mutter in her sleep,
about the graveyards of Asia…

They are calling out to her,
across oceans
and across instinct,
begging her
to finally come home.

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