a poem by Fiona Sheehan


Spilling down his back a row of eyes.
From his perch he jumps lightly down.
An iron breeze rustles his green hair,
The miniscule veins of blood gleam in his eye
A dangerous ruby red; the liquid beauty.
The tail turns, a cache of jewels is revealed
In the sack of an unrepentant thief;
The dance of colors softens every thread.
A molten sun is poured across the yard,
Lighting a thousand emerald candle flames.
The hens look away, as two obsidian eyes
Approach with more demands than questions.
The red-breasted robin turns a dull grey
And scurries away before the god of birds.
The curve of this throat steals the intrigue of night;
His numerous eyes keep a watchful control
Over the brown maidens, subtly there.
Maybe their creator was blind to the color of power-
Or maybe they are steeped in the earthen force of their sex.

Night spreads across the peacock’s fiefdom.
A sign reads: Please don’t scare the birds.

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