UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
BRUCE STIRLING

mother blue

somebody
took a shotgun to the bluebird box
blew a hole in the day
the size of the sun
the mother bird
searching
calling
crying
as he kneels
in blood and blue feathers
his apology
as worthless
as his shame
as he runs
catches up
with the boys
and their gun
one older
one younger
his question
stopping them cold
“don’t know”
“something to do"
"I guess”

land
he tells them
it’s his land
his box
his cold winter nights
wondering
what the hell he’d done with his life
while out here
in deep country quiet
he shapes the world
with four-square walls
aimed at saving
a splash of blue
singing
on a fence post
the seasons passing
with no promise
so he waited
cashed his retirement checks
and waited
and she came
at last
mother blue
inspecting his offering
her song
making him forget
the waste
that was his life
servicing
another man’s dreams
in four-square walls
in the middle
of the fortieth floor
in the middle
of Fortieth Street
in the middle
of the middle
of the middle
that finally put him out of his misery
with a gold watch
and a house
in deep country quiet
mother blue
rewarding him at last
dragging twigs
and grass
into his world
harboring
three blind young
when the gun went off
the baby birds
warm in their nest
overlooking
pasture and stream
he crossed
day after day
to make sure
they were
okay
okay
okay

but
they’re not listening
these brothers in arms
terrified
they run
dropping the gun
he grabs
and empties into innocence
the deep country quiet
entombing him
as he heads back
to his wife
and his wood
the police
finding
bodies
two
bodies
in a fallow field
bones and cloth
dusted
with frost


Bruce Stirling's short stories appear at
Eclectica, BewilderingStories, CautionaryTale,
Defenestration, Opium and ThievesJargon.

He can be reached at bruce.stirling@yahoo.com

View his work at http://gnomonclature.blogspot.com/







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