Passerine

She sold birdsong at the fair, coin
enough to heft and speckle the hucksters
shilling knives and shingle cream. And there
above the carousel, small though loud
as Calliope, she swirled and spilled
grace in unusual ways, ballistic and non,
braided her hair to fret wings as baskets
and gather chills, passerine and otherwise,
and take them to her mouth
with the slight torch of her feet, and thus
swallowed, the songs of children and
nausea stuck in the throats, impatient
as the lack of joy, impatient at the fidget
line at the tilt-a-whirl, where she in some
vast miasma, relinquished her head and
hovered there: woman of flight, woman
of heave, woman in the last vagrant lot
called Summer.

Image: Pelly Benassi on Unsplash

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