I killed a nascent poem today;
it hopped upon my shoulder.
Cocked its head in a curious way;
became a little bolder.
I coaxed it to my open palm,
could feel its restless toes;
assured it that I meant no harm;
that’s how seduction grows.
What happened next is far from clear,
how things between us changed.
I pounced upon its innocence
and sought to rearrange
the placement of its feathers,
the brightness of its eyes.
The shape and substance of its song
I coldly criticized.
The urge to overmaster
I no longer could resist.
It tried to fly away from me;
I squeezed it in my fist.
The minutes passed.
My hand grew cold,
for it held only death.
(so)
I tossed it on the dead poem pile
where it may join the rest.
--Deborah Barchi
