A baffling rain of
dead birds darkened
my New Year in a
snowy Swedish street.
My knees buried
helplessly in the soft
ground I gazed
at a bird’s harsh demise.
His light blue eyes were
bordered with a deep
desire to soar,
but the carousels of death
inside were growling
too ominously.
The purple sheen on
his crown reminded me
of crazy queens
widowed after one night.
The tip of his beak buried
in the snow was like
a hopeless warrior’s sword
slipping sadly
into its shivering sheath.
No expressions
on his grayish-silver cheeks,
the bill and legs so black
(like fingerish twigs
basking in crude oil),
the green-blue sheen
on his throat
like a dose of poison,
the bird’s small stature
was a giant statue of death
on that white floor.
I was silent,
very silent,
and completely motionless.
BIO: Aged 28, Amit Parmessur is from Mauritius. He has been published in around 85 magazines since starting to submit his poems late 2010. Dead Snakes, Heavy Hands Ink, Leaf Garden Press and The Houston Literary Review are some of the places where he has appeared. He currently edits The Rainbow Rose.