Megan Konynenbelt

(Which salmon floats upon the blue face of light unbeckoned by the way glares at the swirling white caps swims bridled through the tropics flows untethered amongst outcroppings of churning stars?)

Passing away, bright passers-by passing by shores scorching lonely and alive, Monet in the inferno, raptures ahead,

flying enjoined, silvery crescents careen cadences in the stratosphere, no appeal, pause, cry, to feed aplenty, alight those upstream. Poetry 37

Poetry 38 “Birdcage” I was called

by bob-haired girls and moustache-wearing men.

Every night when the needle dropped and the brass notes danced

I heard my name from one wooden table top to the next like gossip:

“Birdcage, please” “Birdcage, please” “I’ll have one myself”

And they’d carry me out under low ceilings to the sound of crackling jazz, over the checkered floor, under the arms of lovers.

Belonging and not visible and inconspicuous, all the same, and bashful, I’d arrive.

The journey may last a song or two and I’d be sat, settled and concealed, and strong, ‘til some hand would set me free.

Out of the cage, slivered billows of me would float and clove smoke would fill the air,

and with a well-contented sip, sighs would sing out, “Ah, birdcage.”