Weekender | Feathers: A poem

Photo of a feather
Jim Champion/Creative Commons

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Sometimes I feel as though the sky is embarrassed of me. Like it’ll look down and smack its head in frustration to see me in the same place that I was yesterday.


Feeling static, wrapped in cellophane. 

The unravelling makes me dizzy, bile rising in the throat. 


When it’s off I’ll lay on my back and breathe deep and imagining the smell of pine brings tears to my eyes. I’ll make a shrine around my shed plastic casing with the hair from my head, the contents of my closet, beer cans, cigarette butts and rose petals. When I’m done it will glitter like the nest of a lonely magpie that thinks more will do the trick.

I’ll burn it and rise from the ashes naked and trembling and cold and afraid. 

I will be sooty and spent, 

on the blackened bed of all that once dulled me. 

The stars will not be smiling but will reprimand me for taking too long to save myself. 


Mother, in all her boundless love, will embalm me in tree sap and honeydew and fox fur. 

She will say, “Look: there, there, there. Do you see that you can dream again?”

Contact Aliya Haas Blinman at [email protected].