After St. Francis
Bird, you're gorgeous. You look like a fawn with wings. Out deadheading the garden all I can think of is you and your fathers, and their fathers, and all your fathers back to Noah, who put the seeds you eat on a ship, because even you, appointed to the air, still need the world. Often I imagine thousands of you, inside of me, pecking. Bird, what I want to know is, are there birds in you too?
Jackson Holbert's work has appeared in Vinyl, Thrush, Muzzle, and The Minnesota Review, among others. He lives in Massachusetts and is a poetry editor at The Adroit Journal.