MoonbirdsA Poem by Matthew CloughWhen
you first left me I
began a new relationship with
the phosphorescent pull of
liquor store displays. So
it was no surprise really
when
I woke up one Thursday at
two in the afternoon with twelve bottles
crammed in my desk drawers
and a pounding headache. They
shelved themselves in there, up
against car keys and textbooks, somewhere
between expired gift
cards and shredded lottery
tickets.
I kissed three friends or
four, and their lips all tasted like
the wines of heaven, but
none had the trademark
pomegranate
stickiness of yours. I
listened to the sizzling yellow sparks
of streetlights with a stranger
on a park bench. When
his mother died so did his
love for his father, and
he was just trying to find his
way back by fishing on Sunday
mornings with his suicidal
sister. So far they were
both
drowning. And so I
spent many late nights rummaging
for purpose in all
the wrong places, falling asleep
in the beds of others with
vodka-filled coffee cups
tucked
under my arms. And one
morning around four when
the intoxicating mix of
nostalgia and gin kept me
awake, I gazed from my
third
floor bathroom window with
bloody cuticles and deep red
eyes, with thoughts of you foaming
in my brain like a
shaken Coca-Cola. It hurt
at first, I’ll be honest,
but
my God, for the first time in
my life I heard them singing, the
resounding chirps of night
birds
floating in through the broken
window. When I tried to
search them out in the squalid
blackness
I saw only the moon, yet
their songs rose higher, calling from
a paradise I never expected.
© 2014 Matthew CloughReviews
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