Not a Bird, No, Not Ever, Not Even Or Especially, A Dove

Not a Bird, No, Not Ever, Not Even Or Especially, A Dove

he has no wings

just a plumed

right hand

the hand beats the air

he flies up three feet

and falls back down

                        Zbigniew Herbert

                        “The Stars’ Chosen Ones”

Maybe it’s the climb I question

the most, is the foot up to the task,

the way places are pruned and tested

by our toes, jumped on maybe,  

to get sure.  Is the atmosphere

thinner up there on that particular

branch or beam and does the weight

of the rope or the clothes

tied into a rope chafe against

the hip, is it somehow removed to

a toy you as a boy swung up

into the dark canopy and swore

when it didn’t hook first, second,

third…but you threw and threw

and times it did and foot into the thick

bark, you scaled every tree

from then on like a pro.  At what point

did you stop climbing

into flimsy canopies and instead

cover your obscure sadness

with cactus thorn, with banyon arms,

Buddha’s bodhi gone to rot,

each branch straight down like cell bars?

When, sitting at the strongest

crotch, did you wrap your throat

with gold, gold what I don't know, 
and push yourself once

and for all, into the fall?