BBCF

The Barnard-Boecker Centre Foundation

Bird Child

His skin is tight
pulled without relief
stretched fiercely
over frailest of bones
eroded from within
by gyrating forces
eating his body, even his hair,
reduced to the faintest of fluff.
Through that blued skin
transparent as silk
I see his valiant veins
pulsing a pavan
where the myth of life
fights
against oblivion between
pride and despair.
His fleshless nose
sharp like a hawk’s beak
grasps at breath
for his shriveled
flightless body.
He cries with pale mews
for seconds
in days of silence
his first and only
word…pain…
is the marker of
these suffering, these, his
last days.
I want to wrap a gift of
seconds, minutes,
hours, days,
weeks, months,
years,
in gossamer bandages tied
with strands of desert wind.
I will steal them from CEOs
smug in boardrooms,
grab time from retired generals
playing golf,
suck blood from retired presidents
by sinking barbed hooks in their flesh
as they fish on their yachts.
I want to give this child
shrunken
in his crippled shadow
the impossible gift…
the joy
of
free flight.

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