The Panic Bird
just flew inside my chest. Some
days it lights inside my brain,
but today it's in my bonehouse,
rattling ribs like a birdcage.
If I saw it coming, I'd fend it
off with machete or baseball bat.
Or grab its scrawny hackled neck,
wring it like a wet dishrag.
But it approaches from behind.
Too late I sense it at my back --
carrion, garbage, excrement.
Once inside me it preens, roosts,
vulture on a public utility pole.
Next it flaps, it cries, it glares,
it rages, it struts, it thrusts
its clacking beak into my liver,
my guts, my heart, rips off strips.
I fill with black blood, black bile.
This may last minutes or days.
Then it lifts sickle-shaped wings,
rises, is gone, leaving a residue --
foul breath, droppings, molted midnight
feathers. And life continues.
And then I'm prey to panic again.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (The Panic Bird by Robert Phillips )
- Poetry Is Where You Find It IV, Frank Avon
- As major, hasmukh amathalal
- Erotic haiku by krishna Shivkumar yadav, Krishna Shivkumar yadav
- Open it happily, hasmukh amathalal
- Footless though, gajanan mishra
- One reason, hasmukh amathalal
- Erotic Cup, Krishna Shivkumar yadav
- I Want To Play All Day and..., Monk E. Biz
- Every Poem Reveals Another Kind Of Sadness, Shalom Freedman
- Gramophone- Erotic Haiku Poetry, Krishna Shivkumar yadav