She writhes in discontentment,
disturbed by the hacked gauge—
a mirror reflecting acidic accusations.
Robbed of joy, removed
from tenderness, repulsed
by the false images her supple fingers
refuse to relinquish.
Mr. Bluejay lands on the lemon tree,
violet feathers flutter, almond beak bellows,
and she listens to the sweeping tune sung
just beyond her paned glass.
Creative juices will contribute to her craft,
leaving little time to root out the lies—
looming specter of tomorrow’s repeat.
image by Duane Michals