Birdsong, face it, some male machine

By Marianne Boruch b. 1950 Marianne Boruch
Birdsong, face it, some male machine   
gone addled—repeat, repeat—the damage
keeps doing, the world ending then starting,
the first word the last, etc. It's that   

etcetera. How to love. Is a wire   
just loose? Build an ear for that. Fewer, they say.   
So many fewer, by far. He's showing off   
to call her back. Or claiming the tree.   

Or a complaint—the food around here,   
the ants, the moths, the berries. She's making   
the nest, or both are. In feathers, in hair or twigs,   
in rootlets and tin foil. Shiny bits seen

from a distance, a mistake. But fate   
has reasons to dress up. Stupid   
and dazzling have a place, a place, a place   
though never. She can't sing it.

Source: Poetry (June 2008).

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This poem originally appeared in the June 2008 issue of Poetry magazine

June 2008
 Marianne  Boruch

Biography

Poet and essayist Marianne Boruch grew up in Chicago. She is the author of seven collections of poetry, including, most recently, The Book of Hours (2011); Grace, Fallen from (2008); and Poems: New & Selected (2004). Her memoir, The Glimpse Traveler (2011), concerns a hitchhiking trip she took in 1971. In the Blue Pharmacy (2005) and Poetry’s Old Air (1995) are collections of her prose on poetry. In an interview with Brooke . . .

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Poem Categorization

SUBJECT Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality

POET’S REGION U.S., Midwestern

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