By: Emily Ellison
Swallowtails gulp down my frail, yet renowned
attempts at song. Notes, like black fish, burble
in symphonic schools. Feed me nonverbal
worms, for I have hunger for an earthbound
tastiness, cuisine of the humble ground.
Feasts reeking steamed eloquence and herbal
style tempt me not. No, I live to warble,
but am impossibly consumed, spellbound,
by birds more voluptuous in sound. Tide
after tide drys my skin with its return,
taking scales, and I am mute-remaining.
You sit, swinging feet loose on the dockside
with cocked-head enjoyment of my heartburn.
Similar fowls flock to watch my draining.