There’s a jackdaw in my head

She’s in charge of the dark matter

 

calls the shots from the back room

light bulb swinging above her desk

 

I hear her typing late at night

the quiet genius that stays behind.

 

now and then she pokes her beak

through the trapdoor of my day

 

while I fidget, sip weak coffee

she listens to stories in the room

 

collects novel faces, tiny voices

chatters voicemails in my dreams.

 

when we meet a friendly stranger

and I’m tangled or feeling coy

 

I toss her the attic key and say

sure, let’s see what you’ve got.

 

now she wants to stay out and

I’m like, what now jitterbug?

 

they can’t see too much of you.

but after a pisco sour too many

 

she slinks back out the small door

of my mouth. she’s not so sly.

 

as we glide into bed that night

I watch her skinny belly rise

 

softly stroke her flaky beak

slur, shh that’s right stay close

 

you can keep that key, for now.

 

Leah Larwood - The PoetrySociety

 

 

Done