“THE DOG, THE CAT, AND THE BIRDS”

I wish to be as radiant as a place 

where the birds are never not singing, 

where swallows freely fly through 

mesmerizing architecture, and the 

omnipresent smell of olive trees, 

of citrusy sweetness.

But I lick my own wounds 

like an old rescue dog, patiently 

waiting in its dusty leaden cage, 

numbly staring down at those

burgundy brush strokes, shamefuly

wondering if they’re deep enough, 

if my agony is beautiful enough

for another to finally love me.

Oh stars in the sky, the sheer vastness of my desire sickens me.

Well, well, well, the cat sure did a number on you, child.

M.L December ‘24