Consumed
A redheaded woodpecker
tiptoes over from time to time,
unzips her skull,
tumbles in,
and takes a stroll.
He snoops around on her bumpy gray crown,
helps himself to her private stash
of simple thoughts,
eating tiny bits and pieces,
thinking she won’t notice.
But he’s careless
and leaves tiny holes
where he has pecked.
After little red has his fill,
he jumps out,
zips her back up,
and take flight with the wind.
But she knows this little fellow
has been nibbling,
every day,
altering her psyche,
poking holes in her innermost being,
crumbling her spirit,
leaving a frightening trail:
telephone calls gone dead,
tracking reports missing,
plugs vanished in the night,
baklava suddenly in the fridge.
When one December evening,
perched at the height of starvation,
wind blasting the ice covered, crooked branch,
this scarlet bird hops down,
pulls the zipper and leaps in,
anticipating refuge,
only to find that his trail of tiny holes
has turned into one massive hole,
as he seeps into
the pungent and colorless abyss,
and she doesn't notice anymore.
.
Copyright ©2006 Mary Davila
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Photo by The Print Shop 21
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