we always showered at the beach. this was a power move, a way to be supple. my skin will never look that way again. I had been on my feet for hours when a man who looked exactly like a bald eagle carved a nest of ice in the midst of our infestation. I was restless. I said: you have the most unusually shaped penis I’ve ever seen! I went green then, while you made a mess with him in the corner. so many rugburns died that night as I drove us home. why are you crying? you asked. I’m not crying, I’m singing. you slept for me in our bed, and I bled bloodless blood in the closet. I took out the wings, but they did not fit. they never fit. they only covered. a little dark god waggled his horns at me. opened his mouth like an orphan. you are unoriginal. god stepped through the wall as only god can. I asked to speak to her manager.
some nights I wonder if that eagle had ever known wings so blue, so broken.
Jason Davidson is a poet, fiction writer and theatre-maker. He has written and produced over 200 works of experiential theatre. His poetry has appeared in various journals and can sometimes be found in the hollows of spooky old trees. Davidson lives on California’s Central Coast with his husband and small brood of four-legged children. Connect with him on Instagram at @jasonwriteswords or visit his website: jasonwriteswords.com. Davidson’s favorite feud was between Roald Dahl’s Mr. Fox and the nefarious farmers, Boggis, Bunce and Bean. As anticipated, the clever fox always wins.
