He Starling by Emma Conally-Barklem


He sinks a blue starling’s wing into the glooped custard of truth

The wing is shorn of resurrected indigo flash

The bird’s metal stink festers crushed feathers

He runs towards the man who’s head bleeds

Into Redcar asphalt in rush hour

Felled at a junction

He sneers at his choked whistle for home

What shall I do beige lady with tartared teeth, tattered notebook & torn nails?

Take inventory of this naturalised man

In bicycle clips

Who’s head domes reccus positive

On council land