"Birdfood" revised
“Breadcrumbs”
It would be impossible to think of her without
remembering the birds. The duplex in Northeast Philly
attracted them, but it was North Wildwood
they always flocked to, as if 19th Street was
the bull’s-eye of their homing beacon.
Even out of sight, her sparrows always knew
her methodical, flat footed steps -
cautious of bones porous with age.
She would ease into a porch chair known
only as “Mommom’s” as we waited,
our assignments universally understood.
Sparrows were good, crows okay, seagulls chased away.
She tore last week’s rolls and yesterday morning’s
bagels into beak-sized pieces that our bumbling
child hands never managed to imitate. Her bread
was always stale within a week of buying it,
old faster than ours ever was. She said it was because
it’s so humid down at the shore.
But I coveted the wish that she would sneak
into the kitchen in the lazy breeze of midnight
and expose the air to the heavy scent of yeast.
That way she could spend the slow hours
of late afternoon with wave-weary and sand-scrubbed
grandchildren, her own sparrow hands crumbling
hard dough into edible chunks, sweeping
breadcrumbs as wizened and shriveled as she was
towards the street, waiting for the birds to arrive.
(for the record, revisions suck. I hate them more than anything. It took me more time to revise this poem than it did to write the damn thing in the first place. And yes, I know. thats the whole point of writing. its a process, blah blah blah. anyway, constructive crit on all works is greatly appreciated, since I'll need to revise them all for my portfolio. though i like all the favorable comments thus far!)
It would be impossible to think of her without
remembering the birds. The duplex in Northeast Philly
attracted them, but it was North Wildwood
they always flocked to, as if 19th Street was
the bull’s-eye of their homing beacon.
Even out of sight, her sparrows always knew
her methodical, flat footed steps -
cautious of bones porous with age.
She would ease into a porch chair known
only as “Mommom’s” as we waited,
our assignments universally understood.
Sparrows were good, crows okay, seagulls chased away.
She tore last week’s rolls and yesterday morning’s
bagels into beak-sized pieces that our bumbling
child hands never managed to imitate. Her bread
was always stale within a week of buying it,
old faster than ours ever was. She said it was because
it’s so humid down at the shore.
But I coveted the wish that she would sneak
into the kitchen in the lazy breeze of midnight
and expose the air to the heavy scent of yeast.
That way she could spend the slow hours
of late afternoon with wave-weary and sand-scrubbed
grandchildren, her own sparrow hands crumbling
hard dough into edible chunks, sweeping
breadcrumbs as wizened and shriveled as she was
towards the street, waiting for the birds to arrive.
(for the record, revisions suck. I hate them more than anything. It took me more time to revise this poem than it did to write the damn thing in the first place. And yes, I know. thats the whole point of writing. its a process, blah blah blah. anyway, constructive crit on all works is greatly appreciated, since I'll need to revise them all for my portfolio. though i like all the favorable comments thus far!)