After Louise Machen’s ‘I Am Not Light’

Stale streams of striplights flicker—
febrile, buzzing like midges—
soundtrack the waiting room.

Swans crane their necks
toward a droughted hell
wings cupped in prayer
for what must be the first time
in years.

Cornflower bluebirds skitter
faster than waterfalls,
chirping names;
a few heads look up—ruffled-eyes
blinking away sorrow-grit,
they glide solemnly,
signets held pinion-close.

By the time I’m called,
I’m trapped in
viscose oilspill thought-pollution
too heavy to featherspread and fly,
too scared to inhale truths —
exhale finalities.

I am not light,
I am the weight of masculine expectation,
so I don my taxidermy mask.

Smile.