Last night, I had a dream that I was at home, and I haven't been at home for some time now. Usually when I dream about places, the location is just an impression: the rooms are all shuffled around and the furniture is different colors-- but this time it's exactly as it was when I last left. My mom is telling me, "We don't know how it got here, but it's been here a couple days, and we thought you'd want to see it." It turns out to be a baby peacock, as small as a newly hatched chicken, small enough to cup in my hands. It ruffles all its feathers, and the blue markings glitter like sun hitting the water. A tiny, two-inch train fans behind it, and its head tickles upwards, crooning. The peacock is giving me what I think is a smile, and it doesn't take much to coax it towards me. But instead of jumping into the palm of my hand, it takes its beak and bites my finger deep enough to draw blood. It races back across the floor without apologizing, its blue throat still blazing miraculously, the feathers tremor like the last rings of an echo-- and somehow even with bloodied beak, I find it to be all too soft and I offer my hand again.
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apr 13, 2017
i don't want to talk about it because i don't know what it is. i mean, i know what i was going for, but the execution is questionable
YOU ARE READING
watterson
Poetryan experimental attempt to write a poem a day for the month of april spoiler alert: i did it
