The Bird with the Dirty Beak

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The Bird

 

Did I tell you how afraid I had been?

For years.

Then, my

body so complete

pulsing outwards.

Making.

Who

made who?

And from which of us?

 

But each evening she thinks of me

this bird with her beak

mud ridden

so encrusted

salt and old earth

earth and sand

rock

she flies west to me

and she rubs me raw.

 

(With thanks to S.W and something her mother says.)

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