Seagull by Emily Duncan

Suddenly words feel


smallness uninhibited,

grasping talons

gasp for air.



are not

the hands,


Am not

your lover and I feel

Wild and damp;


You are yellow and cold water, 

Iron, lace,

a weed;



with the tide.


Your wings a curse,

My words the worse for wear,

Like a cheap




I am the cat

on your lungs

and you’re coughing;

I am dill weed and dandelions,

mistakes and mythological

wild thing,


a falling oyster

breaking on the rocks.

The clack

of blood, harsh whispers

of memory,

A beer on the first day of snow,

Skin, bones and feathers,

You made me a

fighter pilot.



One thought on “Seagull by Emily Duncan

  1. Pingback: The Greenwich Village Literary Review, Spring 2014 Vol. I, No. 1 | The Greenwich Village Literary Review

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