Bluebird of Happiness

The Fallen Bluebird of Happiness caws,
folds its molting wings around my house,
my prison, this cell of karmic perdition.
Mother's best china reels out scenes
of too many Last Suppers, her crystal
carrying imprints of lips kissed and long gone.
Grandmother's sideboard moans old
family stories to a pale glass angel
standing guard on my windowsill; she
sparks back the passing lights of cars
careless enough to venture this ruptured street.

The Filipino couple next door argue
until dawn snatches fire from the east wind,
igniting the sky with its breath.
They think redemption can later be found
in a bottle of Christ's Blood Shed For Them
or in a quick fuck on a mattress, its spine
bent like a weeping cross.

I am Moses crossing the Red Sea, I shout;
Frodo, grasping the golden ring, Ulysses,
self-blinded in order to stay the way, but
in my fake cockiness, I turn, stumble, arms
flailing against my dear angel, too late
to catch her, already tumble-crashing
into that greedy Bluebird's beak.


Pris
2005