Cordoba Canaries
Porcelain feathers with glass-jointed toes
Are tufts of white and yellow sat
Perched in the green tuliptrees
— Our living radios.
The little bird sings: “You don’t have to be sad.”
Transposing us, who from their height can be
Seen shifting checked tiles carefully
Chosen, soaking, clicking
Violet for you, but blue for me.
The little bird sings: “You don’t have to be sad to write.”
Your wind chimes, copper, the fork tines,
Silver, borrow diamonds from the sun.
A latticework of steel-woven lilies
— Our table.
The little bird sings: “You don’t have to be sad to write a poem.”
We’ll use the real cloth ones tonight—
I’ll fold them into puddles, stars, and sunrays for you.
Bleached arms reach like a canopy,
To shade our faces gray and blue.
Wreck the handle. Pick it up.
Fly into
The little bird sings: “You don’t have to be sad to write a poem,
but it certainly helps.”
Liza Rindell is a junior at SUNY Geneseo, where she is studying to become an elementary school special education teacher. Apart from writing, she enjoys playing tennis and piano.