Literary Yard

Search for meaning

By: Emily Ellison

Photo by Andrea Reiman on Unsplash

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.


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