Finch

The poem you are holding in your hands

Is the true story of what never happened.

My bird, a finch, came back today

Though where she went

I will never know.

She had once

A broken leg

Which has healed brokenly—

Also the true story

Of what never happened—

I am not a truth teller.

This morning

Wind crosses the lake

Like a speech

On temperance.

Stay awake, it says.

My bird, a finch, came back today.

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by skuusisto