It’s not true that birds will one day stop singing,
what does burning the porridge of wild rice have to do with this?
Moths with silver coat blindly circle the candle,
singe their wings, die showing undersides of chocolate syrup,
eyes looking at me as prayers frozen on my lips.
Still it is not true that birds will one day stop singing,
what does kissing with eyes closed have to do with this?
His hands roughly pull off layers of clothing
brittle like potato wafers they crumble wasted dust of passion,
the dry river bed of my skin prays for mercy.
Can it be true that birds will stop singing one day?
The sparrow that sits on the tree opposite my window
pale moon breast breathing like breeze on beach sand
lays silenced, reproach in its eyes burnt sienna like blighted forest.
That day draw the curtains, commit to a life of fervent prayer.
Written in response to prompt from Big Tent Poetry – Write a poem that starts, “It’s not true that …”