Friday, January 16, 2004

birds fly out of my father's mouth. i'm not used to this, i'm used to a swarm of shrapnel leaping out of his throat. his voice is so quiet so light his words must be like sparrows... so small, with a frail body of but feathers and bones, weighed down by lice. those birds cling to me, scrape my skin, claw at my eyeballs. i want to cry but i can't, i'm not used crying in front of my father.

i cradled in my arms my father like a broken bird. he's singing a song that i can only hear with more than ears. and me whispering, please fly please fly.