They fall from cliffs and promontories every night,
naked stubs of malformed wings too trivial
for flight or other sophistries.
On morning walks we see them, sometimes,
still, but breathing; so few signs of struggle,
pulsing buds of specious equanimity.
Some new kind of non-singular sunbird maybe,
bypassing ashes and myrrh,
borne aloft on winged paralogisms?
I wish I remembered dawns by the cool well
or could recall sun-stopping melodies,
but it's all cliffs and promontories these days.
I feel weary with worn and tawdry bits of feather;
with rebirth as a tiresome expectation.
Susan S. Keiser’s checkered past includes a stint as a high school English teacher, a docent gig in a museum dedicated solely to the poetry of Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, ongoing commitment to a highly specialized literary marketing outfit and a brief fling as a pastry chef. She also spent years as a bank executive. Her poems have appeared in decomP Magazine, Orion headless, fourpaperletters, Right Hand Pointing and Aquillrelle Magazine and she is at work on a book in which both kudzu and ice fishing figure prominently.