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Half Past Midnight.

after Lynda Hull

 Let's talk about mockingbirds, then.
    Let's talk, our voices swinging car tire
        on gravel low, our voices slingshot
            orbit from accepting Lady
                 Marmalade's invitation--a sax
                    metering the groundswell. Hades
taking Persephone dancing
    one last time before Demeter insists
        on entering the room, escorting
            her out. Let's discuss how to let
                 the loons. Not just the yard bird, the one
                    who died too soon, before the owls
prophesized in the bloom of the June
    moon. Let's talk, you and I, about the ones
        who leave their young, after the egg-crack
            hatch. Earlier and earlier
                 every year the orange groves in birdland
                    moaning under the weight of
its own tangerine ecstasies.
    Every measure has consequences,
        even a joy ride on a Sunday
            night, rain coming down like an express
                 blue train, roads slick with purpled rain,
                    a soundtrack playing on the radio
poisoning memory's veins. Let's talk
    about those last birds, the couriers,
        the peacemakers, the mynahs who've grown
            accustomed to their brassy cages,
                the ones who secretly like knowing
                    their place in the world. I've let those birds,
I've let them. They've flown-none have come
    back to rearrange the stars for me
        so I could get a better view.
            Sometimes I can hear their last long notes
                lingering on the postcard edge
                   of night sky. In its bell-shaped horn
            I can hear those sinuous wings flap,
        fly across the spires and scrapers,
into threaded-needle eyes of blue flame.
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Author:Laskar, Devi Sen
Publication:Atlanta Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2017
Words:294
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