Blue Bird Burning
March 26th, 2015
I am your dream of a bluebird sky
A migraine on waking,
The bird, flightless behind your eyes
falls to a cold, day-lit death
screaming it’s blue.
I am burning with our afternoon ghosts.
Sparks of that day
float below my ribs and catch
in the ash of Sunday dinners.
Flowers of then fire from my dress.
I am the soft swing of our future.
Even the dead’s hair grows on
from bone, so lets keep singing
our bluebird song, hop,
step to and seed the streets with me.
Copyright Claire Jane Carter
Blue Bird Burning – Paste up Collaboration with Poet Claire Jane Carter