Armored Bird

In your house
that’s burning down
a little more every day,
there’s an armored bird

nesting in the couch
you can’t leave.
A war bird, tearing
at you, making you tired.

You can’t distinguish
the days of the week.
It would be so lovely
to sleep well and wake up better.

To lie down and sleep
with the armored bird
is to know you’ll awaken
with cuts.

You don’t even know her name
yet you lie there
and imagine you’ll learn something
from her.

She flies in her sleep, you know;
all night you’ll be scratched
and scraped with the tips
of her steel wings.

When you go to the window
in the morning, the sun
will strike and illuminate
each small wound.

It will be as if
your skin’s become Braille;
lovely reliefs that mean nothing
to the eye, that can only be understood

by touch.  You are longing
to be read, and this is why
you lay with that armored bird
in the first place;

it’s the only way
to make use of her —
let her write upon you
something for another.