Phineas wished, for the two-thousand-three-hundred-and-twenty-third time, that he had a different name. His father was in the army, and the family moved fairly often. No, unfairly often. There was ... [+]
John Davies' poem, "Preserving the Last Starling," is in Short Circuit #05, Short Édition's quarterly review. An exiled Scouser in Ireland, John’s work appears in Maine Review, Rosebud, Pedestal, Southword & ‘Influenced’ (Muskeg Press). Twitter: @johndavies1978.
The bird contained
within a bone-melded cage
tries to breathe:
a bubble of air rises,
a pump slowly concertinas;
water drips steadily
as anaesthesia
into a bottomless dish.
The dangling oval glass
banishes all the bird
imagined itself before.
Fluttering it climbs,
climbs to the high perch;
nestles there in the box
made for dreaming,
and the entire cage
thrums when it sings.