have you ever heard
about the waxwing
wanderer
who took the road less traveled
plan B was their plan A
who flew too close too the moon
whose brittle-body and obsidian feathers
shook and shattered
and thus concluded their flight
good night, good morning

standing in the limelight
sunspots on a clear day
shining, sliding, sneaking its squint
onto my skin, myself, my soul
museum piece, masterfully, meticulously
dished, dealt onto a display
every patch, pore, pixel screaming
"look at me, look at me"

I cried to the mirror
blinded by the blankness
the lack of a reply, a darkroom
let me develop, let me see the light of day
let me be blinded by the bright
let me be lost in the high of my life,
let the leaves of the sun flutter on my skin
let me be burned by the moonshine
let this waxwing free of this cage
let me shatter in the moonlight

and the little bird *** away into the brush
It’s wingtips gilded in a dash of gold glimmer
no applause, no curtains close, no limelight, just
an uneventful birdwatching concluded