What Is A Fist If Not A Flower In Disguise? – Réka Nyitrai
April 25, 2021
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?
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.