Member-only story
Egret White
a poem
A rare plume,
plucked by the last Tsarevitch
from something wild,
endangered,
is the chosen colour
in which to live.
A theme to go neutral with,
beyond influence — a cold response
concealing warm tones,
blank as a piece of paper
held up in protest — or if you prefer,
a snow country quiff
sanctioned
by the eye of Audubon,
from a low nest,
this season worn high
on the sleeve with no regrets.
A survivor’s opaque hopes
during a spring offensive,
a faux pearl drop
fixed to the ear of the despot’s
daughter who shakes
her head at all the questions…
…the color of oxygen is
debatable in fair weather
and does it really matter — yet another
squeak of chalk
on a mood board for weekend-long
misgivings pressed inside
the silken crease of littered opinions
dragging us down,
making us sigh and surrender
to the oligarchs of
fashionable intelligence.
**
