Birdshit
There is a canary
trapped in the mind.
But can anyone tell
if he’s alive yet?
Well, are you
having any ideas
about what dying isn’t
wanted for?
Birdshit
Isn’t what you thought was
how can I fake my own death
when I am probably already dead?
(I found a great canary
and he was so great
in the faked-up backdrop with me…)
Maybe a fake death is more painful.
You have to keep waking up
to plan for it
Eulogy for A Great Canary
He couldn’t replace himself
in a language famous for
making up mistakes. So he kept
all of his receipts on the nightstand
wondering oh how yellow
they get, and wrinkled.
You can’t return anything
to what it was
no matter how fake it was
trying to make it count.
Birdshit
I’m thinking the sky is
one coat on a hanger.
In a closet?
Don’t know.
What about these sequins
in our fists like it meant
we would probably have
ten billion mirages for an exit?
Laurie Welch earned an MFA in Poetry from the University of Nebraska. Her poems have appeared in LA Review, Forklift, Ohio, and others. She lives and teaches in Omaha.Attachments area
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