12 Nov 2018 poem


Dora collected bird feathers.
She molded wet clay birds and sticks feathers in them.
Once ready to be removed from the drying rack,
she held each molded bird in both hands,
raised it toward her lips as if to kiss it goodbye,
then she breathed life into the avian form.

It is Dora’s only god-like talent.
She uses it liberally, but often mismatches feathers.
Some of her birds fly listing a little to the left or right.

The birds prefer to nest around her studio.
They nest in the rafters. They nest on the drying racks.
Their eggshells are mostly terra cotta in color,
but rare ones are Easter bright.

Dora’s birds with magpie feathers talk to her.
They talk about the noises the Pueblo’s adobe brick makes.
How they hear its blood running through the mud-caked straw.
How the Vigas coax a pelican from the Rio Grande
to visit and swap fish stories
with a variety of nearby hawks and ospreys.

copyright © 2018 Kenneth P. Gurney



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