There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out, but I'm too tough for him. --Charles Bukowski--

He wants freedom or love--
but I've neither in abundance for anyone--not even myself.
Let him go and he fades out against the sky. Gone. Lost.
& I'm too broken already to deal with this.
Why the brokenness? Why these tears that mark my face in ugly red welts...
the good people of the world giving me a wider berth,
bowing their heads, as if in prayer--ignoring me as I pass by.
So sadness is contagious then? Don't look at me too long...
Don't unveil your eyes to meet my wounded wilted iris--
b/c I saw him and he was so handsome
b/c I saw him and he was a stranger
b/c I saw him and he played ball with my son for five full minutes--
b/c my son said, "Your muscles are strong, like my Dad's."
And a low wail--a lonely bluebird--lodged in my throat
until I swallowed him back.
Freedom or love...all I cannot give.
His hands waved away the first spring fly, threw a ball, swung a bat,
ran through the furrows of his lightning silver hair,
did everything, but reach for me.
What I wouldn't give for his benediction, his blessing...
take care of that lovely family of yours, girl.
I lamely said, "I will."
He said--I know that. He said--Of course.
Then he was gone again and I crumpled against the door-frame, weeping.
My baby with her too blue eyes came and wiped my tears, snapping,
"Why? Why?"
lifting my shirt to search for my wounds...
finding only feathers where my heart should be.

©C. Delia Scarpitti 2005