The Best
Con/Jur/d, 4/23/2021

The best poem is the one never written
not subject to understanding, critique,
into a doorway, readers coming by searching,
demanding for an explanation, “Look, at the
beginning you say crow, later you say
raven a completely different corvid,
Which_____Is_____________it?”
enunciated into submission. My
partners often articulate my 
flaws, “The gap between 
your teeth is no excuse
for poor pronunciation.”
They can’t see un-
written poems,
the one’s

describing,
the feel of talons
on your head from
a baby hawk while
their mother circles, circles.
“Danger my child, danger!”
the peculiar wet/dry sensation
your eyes have with the imminent
threat of being removed from sockets,
and your father’s voice becomes distant
while the smell of Summer-swamp grows
louder and louder and louder and you
want to yell, “Someone, take out the
garbage!” frightening tufted-friend
whose mom will descend, and you
hear your brother’s “Shoo,
shoo.” intimate and very
very, very, very, funny,
and the Accipitridae
adolescent
wonders,
“Why
is

my
tree stump,
shaking without
high winds ruffling
feathers.” 3 raptorial
toes tighten, without 
thought, intervention.

An afternoon's suspension,
in nothing, everything, more,
becoming hawk, becoming
claw, becoming suppressed
laughter, held shrill screaming, 
becoming, father, brother, swamp,
becoming a lone tree, early orange
foliage, being circled, clearly under-
standing her song of “Come home!
Come home!” can never be written,
can never be bound, tied, put down,
at this random moment, one Spring
in-between snow and the humming
of bees, and the minor wind from
the swatting of mosquitoes.
It can’t! And it won’t!

Nothing lived can
ever be captured.
Already without
thinking you
have made
it your
own.

The raptor arises,
you straighten your arms,
to be more like a tree, and
obligingly, mother’s alarm,
unwarranted, but taking
a toll, you feel wing primaries, 
and cartilage squish transmitted,
by remige to your propatagium --
No, you don’t know those
words-- Others did, designs
on creating poetry, class -
fication, poor, poor subs -
stitutes for this experience,
of what is happening to you,
right here, right now.

You open your hand and fly.
You open your talon, soar.
You fly. You soar. 

It would be sad, 
it would be a shame,
to ground to poetry,
to commit poetics.

I’m sure,
from this perspective,
azure blue and sun’s rays
at your back,
father and brother
excitedly showing
​​​​​​​thumping affection,
you would 
agree.