What Is A Fist If Not A Flower In Disguise? – Réka Nyitrai

The birdhouse


I have a question for my therapist.

I am afraid the flutter of sparrows that lives in my rib cage one day might fly away and with them my heart, too might sky out — “can I live without a heart?”

“Yes”, he said, “just be prepared to rapidly fill in the void with your fist. “

This body is a birdhouse. Its roof is made of my mother’s dreams. Its floor is made of my father’s dreams. Its walls are made of whispers.  

What is a birdhouse if not a hole dressed up with flesh? 

What is a fist if not a flower in disguise?






You may be a tiny house perched on a steep hill.

Unearthed from a blue dream your old wings now furnished with claws. To unmarry the ocean, my ancestors let their limbs grow long.

To catch a glimpse of your mother the scales on the mirror should be removed.

When you hear your name, lean a ladder against the sky. Your feathers will unfurl your longings.



                                                                                         Wordsworth across a long belt of daffodils


They say, we will never settle into each other.

They say, I am a ceramic dragon fed on feathers. They say, you are a bird nest woven from clouds.

I say, in every snowflake there is a daffodil. I say, in every daffodil there are many streams of sundowns and unrequited love.

You say, all living things are made up of dreams.

Curled inside the eye of a window I search for the stars. But there are no stars.  The sky is filled with bird feet.  I struggle to reach out to touch them, but I only touch your feet.

In another world it’s snowing. Snowing with daffodils.