Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Beak

Birds don’t chew, they swallow whole,
or else they peck and tear their food
into less awkward bits before
they gulp it down, making use
of their solitary fang, that single tooth,
that spearhead which constantly precedes them,
affixed to the front of their feathery faces;
this weapon with which they greet the world
like a dart slicing through the air,
a streamlined projectile piercing
the atmosphere. No wonder they make us all
a little anxious. Do they ever long to unstrap
that pointed apparatus, lay it aside and use
the soft remains of their mouths to murmur
subtle words, to smile, to kiss without the risk

of poking out their partner’s eye?

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