by Libby Hart

In the small hours
I can hear those rare birds
knuckled to the mother tongue of music.

Each beaten concerto-wing trilling,
a flurried kin tethered by aftertaste.

Their mimicry unloops the knot of me
until I am no longer a begging-bowl,
no longer exhaustion as a second skin.

When I try to put a name
to this innermost heart-stitch

I wake to exile,
to its wingspan of silence
drum-tight inside my ears.

Copyright 2023 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.