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Bird Song
​by John Allen Taylor 

I step into the mirror & kiss myself
full on the mouth. When I open my eyes

we are kestrels with talons buried
in each other’s chests. How beautifully

we rend each other rib from rib.
Beak sharpens beak. We stop for whiskey

& tattoo ourselves on the torsos
of sleeping men. When they wake,

they itch & scratch against instruction, but
as kestrels blood is our birthright. We are

both John, & blood is our birthright.
What weapon can I use against myself

but my father’s silence sown in my flesh?
Burs & beet seed. I am a garden of wrath.

How beautiful I am, roots roiling red
from the earth. Kestrels & snakes.

Plumed men beak to beak. I close my eyes
& shatter.

John Allen Taylor is a knower of small things. Among these things are goldfishes, California poppies, & 1940s glassware. His poems are published in Booth, Faultline, The Boiler, Nashville Review, & other places. He currently lives in Boston & serves as Redivider's poetry editor + Ploughshares's senior poetry reader. He tweets @johna_taylor.


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Issue 18: Summer 2016
ISSN 2157-8079
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