Birdshit (1)
Of all the Godots
there is only one
who is famous
for hanging himself
in the back of Queen Mab’s closet
and later in Camus’ garage.
But instead of laughing
at his antic we became
mad with wondering why
was he even there
wearing that disguise?
Birdshit (2)
When I open up
my fad sing-hole
I am the drift
disguised as a given
tried to pry out
the malfunctioning organ.
Is it black?
Is it coffin?
Is it a Mab screeched
against the murderous plains?
Nope. Don’t brake for no dames.
When instead I’m opened up
my fad sing-hole I forget to have
my grocery list my grocery list
I still have to graffiti it w that Monday
I missed him (when?)
like this: a mad Camus laugh
gets stabbed in
the way I see myself.
What if I could speak the missing earring
like a bird shits? What if a world is an angle
with no wings? Just a scene closed up close
just all close upped? What if
just a question
maked up enough for when
I open a bathroom sink-hole up
with another mirage again?
Laurie Welch earned an MFA in Poetry from the University of Nebraska at Omaha. Her poems have appeared in Sugar House Review, The LA Review, Forklift, Ohio, and others. She is currently working on her first full-length manuscript, BIRDSHIT, which explores the notion: If a bird is a symbol of the soul, then what is the meaning of its shit?