I’ve spent the last hour sifting through an anthology of women poets. After touching on Adrienne Rich and Bella Akhmadulina, I landed on the arresting “Bird,” by a Hungarian poet named Agnes Nemes Nagy.
There’s a bird perched on my shoulder,
twin-bird, bird born with me.
It’s grown so large, grown so heavy
each step I take is torture.
Dead weight, dead weight, dead weight on me.
I’d shove it off – it’s tenacious,
it claws into my shoulder
like the roots of an oak tree.
An inch from my ear: the sound
of its horrible bird-heart throbbing.
If it flew off one day
I’d drop down to the ground.
Not to go all classroom on you, but… feel free to comment on what happens after she drops.