Poetry: Thus Spake the Mockingbird

Thus Spake the Mockingbird
–Bar­bara Hamby
From Babel

The mock­ing­bird says, Hal­lelu­jah, core­op­sis, I make the day
     bright, I wake the night-bloom­ing jas­mine. I am
the duodec­i­mo of des­per­ate love, the hocus-pocus passion
     flower of deliri­ous ret­ri­bu­tion. You nev­er saw such a bird,
such a triage of blood and feath­ers, tongues and bone. O the world
     is a sad address, bit­ter­ness melt­ing the tongues of babies,
breasts full of acci­den­tal milk, but I can teach the flow­ers to grow,
     take their tight buds, unfurl them like flags in the morn­ing heat,
fat ban­ners of scent, flat plat­ters of riot on the emer­ald scene.
     I am the green god of pine trees, con­duct­ing the music
of rustling nee­dle through a harp of wind. I am the heart of men,
     the wild bird that dri­ves their sex, forges their engines,
jim­mies their shat­tered locks in the dark flare where mid­night slinks.
     I am the care­less minx in the skirts of women, the bright moon
caress­ing their hair, the sharp words pour­ing from their beau­ti­ful mouths
     in board rooms, on bar stools, in big city laun­drettes. I am
Lester Young’s sidewind­ing sax, send­ing that Pony Express
     mes­sage out west in the Mar­coni tube hid­den in every torso
tied tight in the corset of do and don’t, high and low, yes and no. I am
     the radio, first god of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, broadcasting
the news, the blues, the death counts, the moth­ers wailing
     when every­one’s gone home. I am sweeping
through the Eustachi­an tube of the great plains, transmitting
     through every ear of corn, shim­my­ing down the spine
of every Bible-thump­ing banker and bureau­crat, relay­ing the anointed
     word of the shim­mer­ing world. Every dirty foot that walks
the bro­ken streets moves on my wings. I speak from the golden
     screens. Hear the roar of my dis­cord mur­der­ing the trees,
scream­ing its furi­ous rag. The fuse­lage of my revival-tent brag. Open
     your win­dows, slip on your cas­tanets. I am the flamenco
in the heel of desire. I am the dancer. I am the choir. Hear my wild
     throat crowd the explod­ing sky. O I can make a noise.

Cyn is Rick's wife, Katie's Mom, and Esther & Oliver's Mémé. She's also a professional geek, avid reader, fledgling coder, enthusiastic gamer (TTRPGs), occasional singer, and devoted stitcher.
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