take flight, little ones

I’ve been
picking up
sparrows
since
I was child.
I plucked them
from the snow
the cold
and warmed them
in mittens
coat pockets,
wrapped in cotton.
Now
I collect birds
from the streets,
the wind,
in bars,
under the sun,
on the run.
Broken winged swallows,
broken hearted eagles
that lost their way
to the hills.
I even
stop for the pigeons,
the dirty little rats,
hit
by kicking feet
and a life
of city dust
weighing
on their tails.
Their beaks
have grown bigger
over the years.
I can feel them
as they
peck away
at my heart.
Some of them
have mutated
pointy tip
teeth that rip
right into
that juicy throb.
It drip
drops
all over them,
speckling
their coats
in sweet
red honey.
Some of them
gave up
on themselves.
Some have flown
and soared
higher
than before.
Some still come
to sing to me
once in a while.
I’ve never regretted.
Their feathers
were all beautiful
up close,
even though
I may have choked
on a few,
or coughed
some up,
nuzzling warmth back
into them.
And my heart,
rather than
shriveling up
under another attack,
a beak
so ridiculously sharp,
it pierced
right through
the middle,
has grown
stronger,
rather like
hands
after honest days
of working the fields.
And I’m not afraid.
I’m not afraid
to rip it out
of my chest
with my own claws
lay it
under a fallen doves
weary head
for the softest
dream filled
sleep.
It may get cold
and dark
inside
and I
can get
so hopelessly lost,
following
flight patterns,
connecting arteries
back to muscle,
preempting falls,
wiping blood
out of my eyes.
But I’m not afraid.
I’m not afraid
to love.