Emily Brochin

Mechanical Birds

At the base of your pant-leg is a little machine

Which makes you able to touch me.

Below it is the cerulean paste board,

Jade-flowered bowl and glass insect eyes.

I say, the flesh is not hard.

It is the living dust you swept out of the room

In which there is nothing but smooth silence,

White and harsh

And big, dark stains.