GIRL-BIRD
Tight at the shoulders, full at the breast,
ample below, that’s a Girl-Bird, all right;
she’s never met a cliff she wouldn’t fly from.
Diamond-chips conspire in the depths
of her eyes: soul-lights flashing give-over,
for those are the words of the Girl-Bird’s song.
Give over, give over, you Boy Bird, it goes:
rise up this instant, you simplex-libido,
O, weave your wand, you silly member.
This sexy sister preens her feathers.
What turns her into a comely woman
is anyone’s guess: she feels the need
for spatulas, a nice herb garden,
wakes at noon to ponder ring-tones;
grounded, molts. Such an odd species,
fueled by the surge from the Girl-Bird core,
all sighs and zazz: everyone wants one,
thoughtfully rouging a lip, intent
at the racks, in line at the movies atilt
on a high-heel, hilarious, chatting with friends
as they wait their turn at the popcorn stand.
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