You are at home in a mob
attracted by others calling
you out. Your PETER-PETER-PETER
a song any slight bird can sing.
No ascending trill gone unmatched
just the usual birds. Yours is a beer
song, an all-occasion, feather-
my-nest with any quicksilver thing:
some hung-over chick’s discarded
pull-tab plucked from high grass.
Black hair long enough to spiral
your nest’s walls. The object
of her undoing your bright spot
amid long days of sophomore girls
who hear only their own shame
in the song you sing at dawn. Used
up notes repeated ad nauseum.
They say you are common, a tit-
mouse, a comely bird performing
acrobatics in an unruly crowd.
About the author
Michele Lesko has travelled to many of the world's most well-known cities (London, Paris, San Francisco, Tokyo, Honolulu & Manhattan) but found her trip…Read the full bio
Issue 12 · June 2011
Table of contents
- From the editors