The mockingbird’s song

All through the night he warbles
as I set out for visions -
lightening my being;
drifting amidst the cumuli.
He sings a wandering lyric,
chiseling his tune upon my throat
in an elegant rasp.
The birdsong weaves a dream
lifting me above dissolving cirrus;
raining upon myself.

Prisoner of ecstacy -
vagary writhing on the edge
of nothingness.
Be still.
There is no stigmata;
though demons
gambol around my bed -
and angels sob.
They take their turns with me
rowing upstream.

A temporal fugitive -
the manacles’ clattering chain
affixed to corporeal ballast -
the key beyond my reach;
chafes my wrists and ankles,
meddles with my horizons,
pulls me back onto
the flatness of this world.

The dead thump of my return
does not disturb the mockingbird.


© 2001 Melissa Songer