The Metal Birds (poem)

The Metal Birds

The floorboards thrum against my soles,

glass shivering in the frames like teeth.

I clamp my hands over my ears,

but the pulse of the earth is a drum

that beats through my own skin.

I hope they rot in the craters they've made.

I hope the dirt they churned 

fills their mouths until they are silent.

With their bombs.

And their bombs.

And their guns.

And their bombs.

And the violence they have caused

Outside, the horizon is hemorrhaging.

The sky drops its heavy, orange fruit—

fire that feeds on the neighborhood.

Mechanical birds circle the sun,

wings of jagged iron built for murder, 

screaming as they tear the air into strips.

Then comes the shroud

A thick, grey ghost of a wind 

that smells of scorched rubber and old lives. 

it crawls through the cracks of the door, 

tasting the room,

waiting for the lights to go out.