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85| Under the Photo of Koo Koo the Bird Girl, I Let You Inside of Me

Vincent James Trimboli


Because I have no words worthy of describing you. . .

Silent and golden, both tinny in their ring. Gold, on his hand that slides from my tail bone, up to the apple of my throat where he holds long enough to see my eyes cloud — breath in amens as he eases up and slides, all licorice, down me and curls his tongue between my toes; my toes, where there is no webbing.


Amens she has never felt. She is without the parts needed, her forehead too long, nose too close to her mouth; her mouth unfilled, and she will never run her thin lips over the length of her lover’s penis, she will never have; lover. I am so sorry for her, although she was more famous than I will ever be and more men have snuck off from their wives and children to see her. She is: and I am jealous that I can't find the words to describe her, have to talk about us fucking under her sympathetic beauty. She feels sorry for me, here with you. I imagine, her raw as red-ants watching you push back inside of me and I feel sorry again, for her and for me.

But what words do I have? I talk about us fucking underneath her, you coming inside of me, because that is all I deserve to say about her somber stance — drug out of bed at three a.m., her feet laced, tarred and feathered for a distilled moment of celluloid history; her handlers screeching, "Pretty Bird, Pretty Bird."

Pretty Bird, amongst the rare breed of funeral home trees: filler in corners, silk and sad, drug into place by her handlers. She is beautiful and sad, beautiful and lonely. I am lonely with you here and drug into place by your hands. In my head I stack smooth stones on her grave, honor her, defile something else less important, take him back inside me.

Wiping off, he asks, why I hung you there. There, above the spot where I pretended to be part of the floorboards, a scratch or mar in chestnut. He is always asking why and I tell him very little, because he always has something to say, although they mostly disagree with the deeply rooted ways I have set myself in; he calls her ugly and ratchet, once he made a reference to disgust. This is why I hate him, this is why I let him fuck me under her. Because I know he will call her only what he can see and this often has very little to do with what is actually there. I hate him because he never uses words like metaphor, brocade. Never says dichotomy. It's people like him that flood the self with worth and drown in it.

If I was a bird I would be loon or a crane.

He is a parakeet.

You are a hand-blown glass, the rarest kind, a beautiful and fragile creature, and this is your sonnet:

Virchow-Seckel syndrome,
antimongoloid — slant and
completely blind. She does
not speak but is seen. Bird face,
mild and narrow and rare.
Native and unknown
when she died.

What I will never tell you:
the pretty bird in me,
parakeet in the deepest mine.
Dig as deep in me as you
need to find something
or tear
her out of me.

Vincent James Trimboli is a native of Elkins, WV, and holds an MFA in Creative Writing from West Virginia Wesleyan's low-residency program. Vincent is a poet, actor, and visual artist; he currently teaches writing at Davis and Elkins College. Vince's essays and poems appear in The Vandalia and most recently in the second volume of Julianna Warner's The Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow Project.

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