Morning Song
by Jessie Caitlin Bullard
the young woman
beneath the roof,
broken and curbed
like a wounded bird
picked at her own feathers
until they read omens
from her—a tragic
suffering personified
for the whole neighborhood
to witness.
her bad habits
made hip by bruised lipstick
and tiny tattoos
should have cued
everyone to her fate--
especially me,
the one with eyes
for torment;
an ache for an ache,
rose-colored glass
surrounds this little injured bird--
drowning in a filtered
fish bowl.
“cherry cough drops
go great with bottled coke,”
she told me,
glass dangling--
glinting like a grin.
“I think you’d really like it,”
she hummed before
taking a swig.
i used to write her love poems,
but she doesn’t know--
stories where she was soaring
and I watched from below
in admiration
welling well-beyond
my arms--
i tried to carry water
without a bucket
and it all poured out from me.
people point to her
and debate
whether or not
she deserves this fate--
destiny or doom?
and just twenty minutes
before her fall,
she was a still, fragile
portrait--
a barely-there
apparition
of a dreamer
who believed
her dreams
would take care of her,
keep her safe--
sitting in her room
collecting bottles:
sea-green, translucent,
dark red.
i phoned her last week
and she picked up
only to deliver
words i swore
people only heard
at deathbeds, or
in desperate sleep-talk, or
during final partings--
“don’t forget me,”
and a moment later,
muffled in laughter, a quip:
“sorry, I’m just so dramatic.”
late at night
i imagine her dreams
and write them down
in pages until i can guess
that i know her--
hum along as the window bird
chirps a morning song,
suck on a red cough drop,
pour the liquid down,
try to carry water
or drown.
beneath the roof,
broken and curbed
like a wounded bird
picked at her own feathers
until they read omens
from her—a tragic
suffering personified
for the whole neighborhood
to witness.
her bad habits
made hip by bruised lipstick
and tiny tattoos
should have cued
everyone to her fate--
especially me,
the one with eyes
for torment;
an ache for an ache,
rose-colored glass
surrounds this little injured bird--
drowning in a filtered
fish bowl.
“cherry cough drops
go great with bottled coke,”
she told me,
glass dangling--
glinting like a grin.
“I think you’d really like it,”
she hummed before
taking a swig.
i used to write her love poems,
but she doesn’t know--
stories where she was soaring
and I watched from below
in admiration
welling well-beyond
my arms--
i tried to carry water
without a bucket
and it all poured out from me.
people point to her
and debate
whether or not
she deserves this fate--
destiny or doom?
and just twenty minutes
before her fall,
she was a still, fragile
portrait--
a barely-there
apparition
of a dreamer
who believed
her dreams
would take care of her,
keep her safe--
sitting in her room
collecting bottles:
sea-green, translucent,
dark red.
i phoned her last week
and she picked up
only to deliver
words i swore
people only heard
at deathbeds, or
in desperate sleep-talk, or
during final partings--
“don’t forget me,”
and a moment later,
muffled in laughter, a quip:
“sorry, I’m just so dramatic.”
late at night
i imagine her dreams
and write them down
in pages until i can guess
that i know her--
hum along as the window bird
chirps a morning song,
suck on a red cough drop,
pour the liquid down,
try to carry water
or drown.
Jessie Caitlin Bullard is a poet and a teacher of rhetoric and composition at the California State University. their work can be found published in various magazines and journals, including Stone Fruit Magazine, East French Press, Haloscope, and others.