After Maya Angelou
It’s the way she’s bent
into a bird
Right knee tucked
into shoulder
She’s making a sculpture
as if in a ballet class
for a painter
Her toes, painted red
make a feathery tail
It’s the beak that looks
wrong
as if someone has taken
the wet rag mouth and twisted it
into a shape that can’t speak
Lips, mouth and cheeks
gone into the knee
He’s painted a line
down her fine china leg
First blood of a girl turning woman
One ear is open – human
Not of a bird It is listening
First published in John Murphy’s The Lake, July 2014.
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