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April Jones

Two birds are fighting, but it looks like a dance.
Wings extended and black, beaks parted slightly, feet intertwined
and they are circling. If only for their angry cries.
Time has dimmed your voice, the exact shade of your eyes,
but I still hate you.

One of the birds is pinned to the ground
for the final most painful peck. I wish
I’d noticed them before, the birds. Before
they were fighting. I could have seen how different
they are. One a little plumper. One has kinder eyes. 

I only think of you in the quietest moments, the ones
that force me to remember the things I’ve worked
my life to forget. I once thought that I’d long for a

The victor has flown away now, and the lesser
bird is back on its feet. It pauses to breath
before it opens its wings and takes flight.