“Her moodiness...” my mother says in a loud whisper to Aunt Arlene. “It's those teenage hormones.”
I glare at the back of her head. She'd be moody too if she were responsible
...
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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.