A curiosity
of mockingbirds
haunt my mornings:
Is the air much purer
when you’re an island?
Other important questions arise:
Who are you?
These sharp-eyed bureaucrats commenting on my form,
the apparent in-utility of my featherless arms.
When they leave me alone do I cease to exist?
Probably there is some ledger
and my sins
become inescapable then.
If a different beat
dervishes me away
in a hail of old dust,
parts of broken dolls
and the teeth I spat out when you couldn’t see,
am I still judged?
What purpose does tasting me serve?
Sharp tongues
licking at my scars.
The commentary drones on, jury
and sentencing committee,
even on trial
I bore easy.
Always scribbling in the margins.
And long into the night the cell floor stays
empty, but for soft moonlight
slipping the bars.
Deliberations complete
they have no choice
but to watch me walk,
with cocked, angry heads.
A happy-go-lucky idiot,
whistling as the street-lights die
one by one,
on cue.
They cannot stand the darkness, either.
This poem is an original piece written about a year back when I lived in Galápagos for a while. All over the island of Santa Cruz you have these mockingbirds which are super curious and always full of commentary about what's happening around them. They inspired a few of my poems at the time. This one is my favourite.
Image from wikimedia commons:
