WE ALL FALL IN LOVE WITH OUR BEST FRIENDS & THEN WE DIE LIKE THAT
i could tell you about the ocean. the big one. the one that stretched its arms until it lapped at her feet. or the small one. in their collar- bone. jumping like rain-water. or the park-bench. the bird-song. the anonymous Tumblr message, answered. the poem i won the whole season with, splattered, gulping, in the last venue i came home to. or the accidental mimic. the knowing-your- body-better-than-the-radio-knows-the-popular-songs. popular just means we’ve sat hands-clasped listening enough times that we could karaoke the chorus if someone put a gun to our heads. i could sing you without faltering. i know exactly what you sound like. or watching people i love love each other. watching two people become one snake biting off its own tail but forgetting how to swallow. watching love love itself. watching her throw out another post- card. watching him host her name in his mouth which means her legs onto the stage which means he’s got dry-heat eyes & we’re gonna drink until we look like who we want us to be. or the flowers shoved behind the chair. or the car split open on the highway. the apartment left unlocked. the hand- written note. the last mouthful of coffee.
L. R. Bird is a cryptid from the Jersey Shore and a belligerent transsexual criminal with a history degree. They are the author of, among other chapbooks, BLOODMUCK and INVENTION OF THE MOUTH, and want to hear about your favorite bridge: birdpoet.github.io