When birds fly from tree to tree.
The branches strain to hold them up.
And that’s a metaphor for a borrowed
existence. I cut myself with a rubber knife
when suicide is not the goal.
To go over that edge of wanting.
Back and forth between denial
and acceptance. I may not have
a choice of when and how.
There are of course many
metaphors for extermination.
I mean I have flown from tree to tree
to avoid death from the innumerable
hands hauling rocks at me.
This isn’t about me but about birds.
Giant birds. Colorful birds.
Songbirds. Birds of prey.
Endangered birds counting down to gone.
But you can see me there.
In the picture of the birds.
In the church of avian beings.
Small, colorful, and endangered.
The beautiful thing about a metaphor
is that it can become many things.
It can hold you up like a tree branch.
And strain and strain
until a rock knocks you off.
*Photo by Krisztina Kovari on Unsplash.
