Birdlime
by Zoey Rose Collea
Bird·lime
A sticky substance spread on to twigs to trap small birds.
Light is damp
sap on a twig.
I go there.
The leaves are puzzle
pieces in shadow.
My foot is in the shadow
and now, it is a puzzle piece.
It is March, the first
hot day we’ve had
in months. This March
feels different. March
is the entire town, yet
a transient photo
made to be lost.
The day is yearning
to begin or end,
whichever comes first,
whichever lasts forever.
A bird fingers
a noon heaven.
The start
of this magic
is imaginary.
If there is sap
and a foot, there
will be a beginning
and end.
The past is a decimal
between numbers
and my design
is infinite.
The down
on my belly
is showing.
Stay with me,
if I were a bird.
If I were a bird
would I see the
birdlime?
The light is damp
and I am thirsty.
The trees’ heads
jitter because something
is moving toward me.
The trap
was starting to feel
like the maw
of an animal -
something that ensnares.
Stay with me,
bird, as you
trill in glue.
The maw was only
a calendar and you
are only time with wings.
I am only
time with a body.
How can we be caught?
Our hearts pump
zeal for tomorrow.
You are not
made to be
stuck for too
long. You
are not made
for anything
and that is grand.
You are made for everything.
That is the beginning
and end.
That is the month
of March in the maw
of June. June is damp
light. I go there.
I wait.
The trees jitter.
The trees jitter.