PoetryAloud
L.L. Barkat Reads
If memories were sparrows,
mine would gather behind a house half finished aluminum sided against the landscape, windows glazed from the inside out with smoke of cigarette and venison burning. They would crowd in lavender lilac, above the intersection where each year a robin laid impossible blue eggs, one of which it seems would always break, sully the perfect roundness of a mother's mud-patched efforts to prevent a deadly cracking. Sparrow memories would rock limbs, tremble leaves, blot out the threat of rain while brown haired girls peered over rim of tight worked straw to watch a miracle of twin eggs coming to birth. |
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