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Young Gannet

I’m tired of crows and their death banquets.
Really —lighten up, Ted. Do you keep your glasses on
during sex? School is over. It’s parrot season
and there’s a gold rush in Cuzco.
Sure, the flesh is sad
and I haven’t read Hesse since New Paltz.
Rachel, that bird girl, loved the mystery of everyday events;
she was drowsy, and lawless—
always shooting a V during rock paper scissors.
Later: ping-pong, books at Ariel,
Bread and Puppet —that trip to Scotland
where she caught me with a pole and noose
and salted me on-site.
There’s a limit to language
that I can’t amend
knitting with two colors
simultaneously
like a Fair Isle jumper.
We played telephone with bleached shells
as the warm smell of the earth
             leavened.

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Damon Hubbs is a poet from New England. His work has appeared in Hobart, Apocalypse Confidential, Farewell Transmission, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Gorko Gazette, The Literary Underground, and elsewhere. He is the author of the poetry collections Nighttime Logic and Venus at the Arms Fair. He is an editor at Blood+Honey.