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|
|Date:||Sep 22, 2017|
|Previous Article:||Final Decree.|
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