This is the official blog of Northern Arizona slam poet Christopher Fox Graham. Begun in 2002, and transferred to blogspot in 2006, FoxTheBlog has recorded more than 670,000 hits since 2009. This blog cover's Graham's poetry, the Arizona poetry slam community and offers tips for slam poets from sources around the Internet. Read CFG's full biography here. Looking for just that one poem? You know the one ... click here to find it.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

"Finches," March 31/31 Project

For Doc Luben's March 31/31 Project
No. 4


By Christopher Fox Graham

every morning, the finches feed outside my window
they come each season
their mustard seed brains
containing physics equations of aerodynamics
instantly calculating how to move weight and mass
with the precision to dodge hawks
and avoid power lines
their grey matter specks
contain songs passed down generations
from father to egg
to coax mates from other lovers
the architecture of building a home from twigs
where to house themselves inconspicuous
from snakes and housecats on the prowl
synapses hold cartography of this country
tracking paths from one feeder to the next
returning here with such regularity
I should charge them seasonal rent
or give them each a name

amid that mess of maps and math
buried beneath sonnets of bird-speak oratory
I can see their curiosity
as some gaze back in my window
and wonder where you went
they remember seeing us bare skinned weekend mornings
wrapped around each other as discarded gloves
they were the only ones permitted to see us naked
slumbering until past noon
content together even if the rest of the world
imploded beneath its angry weight
only these feathered peeping toms
could give testimony of how my arms sheltered you
describe unbiased the concavity of man and woman
their mathematics can still see the geometry
of your trapezoid torso
my lithe limbs
four unclawed bare feet
two unfeathered heads rising from beneath sheets
my face buried in your raven hair

they come now and wonder
why you’ve been gone so long
ponder perhaps there’s a nest in another room they can’t see
where you may be raising young
or whether you’ve flown away
gone north or south for the season
but note the vast bed we shared still has space for you
a wide ocean of sheets
visited only by slim limbs reaching
finding nothing to fill them
then retreating home to my sides

they feed and fly on to their next destination
wondering if they may see you elsewhere
when they can tell you
if you stray too far away too long
you may forget you way home
back to the warm shelter
where they fell in love with how we fit together
and gave them a reason to always visit

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