Flock of Paper Birds.
I needed the God of my childhood to be useful
so I folded him,shaped his pages into wings.
Cranes at first,then more challenging roosters,
swallows, owls. I pinched edges, split clauses
to make word plumage.I fractured Leviticus with
pleats.Now toucans mount doves
on the kitchen counter, near an unholy pile
of geese,cloacas gaping,beaks jabbing everywhere.
Birds plummet from shelves without bothering
to flap, remember nothing.Ink blurs
feathers yellow.They drown in baths, rip luridly,
turn up mangled in the hallway, footprints
across their necks.Mostly, they’re individuals,
smoothly indifferent to each other’s fates,
though now and then some prop up neighbours
if they topple, and when I lie with a visitor
beneath my quilt,incubating his glorious buttocks,
the flock discover their throats and sing together
while I guide my tongue along warm creases
and the tight sheet of his body unfolds.