Lucinda Lawson

 

 

 

Mania

Singing, singing, singing, singing

long past hope of even

late migration, shrilling

into darkness—mockingbird!  

It won’t shut up. 

If I could catch it, cup

it in my hands, I’d pluck

the bloody feathers

from its beating breast,

then twist the trilling throat until

its tender neck bones snap.

I would pop its twiggy-slender

legs, pull the clutching claws

from out its feet, spread wide

the modest pilgrim-gray and white

fans of its tail and wings and pleat

them like accordions, each quill’s spine

creased every quarter inch. 

No more polka for this bird.  No

more crazy-dancing-at-two-

thirty-can’t-stop-spinning-this-damned

singing-ringing-in-my-inner-ear.

Its head I’d pound with stones

till flesh and feathers, blood and bones gave up

the ribbons of their song.  I’d finally own

those muscled threads, would hold them unbound,

frayed and dumb between stilled fingers

and a steady thumb. 

Lucinda Lawson has a creative writing degree with an emphasis in poetry from Missouri State University (formerly Southwest Missouri State University).  Her work has been published in several small journals, including The Penwood Review and Welcome Home and has been nominated for inclusion in the Pushcart Prize Anthology.  She lives near Hartville, Missouri with her husband and two daughters.