Archive
Spring, Dripfisted
the new leaves spit from the bud
like licking lips and swinging tips
and the very yellow sky is welling,
swelling up with dust and pollen,
solemn as marriage and sudden
as joy, a buoy in the big red sea
of city streets and the flowers burst,
they split and kiss at the wind,
spinning pinwheel songs of lover
hither, zithering up to the sun
and the sparrow-song, gurgling
on poplar and pavement the nest,
the nest, the burbling children
to fly, to fly, the flip of their wings
and the wheeling flock, the shock
of sky and the small fry, the pekingese
wheezing in its tray, the stray cats
white as the tide and staking out,
taking the world
that blooms in the whiskers
and withers in the eye,
that dangles and dithers
like a girl in the sun
shouting april to no one.
Sarah Stanton is a translator, editor and writer from Western Australia who has spent the past three years living and working in Beijing. She has been published in a number of magazines and indie projects, including Clarkesworld, Voiceworks, Hunger Mountain, Cha and Conte. She blogs at The Duck Opera and tweets @theduckopera.
qarrtsiluni 