I never know what to do with you—
little bird, in my chest.

tumbling over like the dirty dishes
I ignored, stacked high on the counter

until you rage cold, tear stained
futtering to a halt and catching breath

at the soggy, red ribbon volcano
concaved in the rusty waste bin

there I find first reconciliation
brief moments confronting humiliation

burning eared, throat raw, I behaved no better
than the broken, baking soda volcano
not even worth blue polyester.

© Fae Hilscher