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By Michael Cantin

You relax as I take my perch at your shoulder.
I am very nearly weightless here,
more a garishly colored thought or
a concept in preening feathers,
whispering my poison into your tilted ear.
I am not a good bird.

I am leaning slowly into your neckline now-
There to chew away your resolve
in small leafy bites.
A string of saliva builds a bridge between us.
One night it will collapse
like the dreams we’ve abandoned.

And you-
You scritch beneath the sinister curve
of my open beak.
And I-
I purr.

It is a deep growl,
something predatory,
a sound gravely like the roads that led us here.
Like the roads that lead us home.
I am not a good bird.
But I am yours.

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