Birds in Heat

There’s a stain on the left wing. She tells me she doesn’t know how it got there, but I know it’s from when she was younger. We tried little to remain in formation, but that’s okay when you’re flying in the space of other lonely animals. We passed empty time by interlocking wings, fucking on top of molted feathers, feasting on tired ladybugs while birdseed dripped from the ocher beaks of many. We learned that beaks could bleed.

We ran south decidedly with no particular agenda, only to realize there was nothing really here for us, us perfect little birds.

 

John Paul Martinez lives on an isthmus in Wisconsin. His work is forthcoming in Gone Lawn. He likes to write poetry when it’s dark out.

Photo Credit: Jochen Spalding

 

2 Responses to “Birds in Heat”

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