I tried with you, I really tried, and then I let you go
you flew out of the window even as it was closed
panes securely fastened
latch tight and unyielding
because you had never quite been
 
it was you see, a failure of mine
to find you flailing beneath yourself
with a few choice words you could
nourish from my adoration and mend
your rapid fast airy heart
containing only string
for what you need and not
enough for love
 
I was a clay maker
thinking fitfully if I put enough into shape
if my structure were sound and whole
if I poured water to prevent cracks
moistened over the thin spots
despite not being what you wanted
despite being a girl
despite having tired fingers
you would relent and
let me hold you in my lap
as crickets drowned the rush of air in hot melt
 
you were after all
used to mistreatment, I reasoned
surely a bird who had been injured
would long for peace?
the passion of sincerity
a terribly naive hope
when we all know
those who like the wound
will return to their abuse
not the arms of one who
is boring in her devotion
I never thought I should become
that very tedium
you strike against with mended wing
the one you answer last
when bored or idle
not they, who burn in your throat
wakefully lusting
whilst I feel already the part
of spinster and milliner
hemming your spare parts
 
it would be easy for me to
dress like you, smell like you
gather a flock of admirers
play midnight dalliances with
camera and music
cue ..  lights ..  pose ..  fizz
and now that you have shown
your true feathers
I see a little of why you prefer this slovenly approach
it suits your downturn
your denial of yourself
and I feel embarrassed that you had me so hot
as you pulsed beneath my wonder
with practiced charm
so used to hearing the false words you live for
 
I do not own
a penis
though my strength and my passion
would have surprised you
I do not possess
a penchant for games or
the worship sufficient to be
your follower
your worshiper
so little bird
when you escape
please do not
return when the skies fall
and he stops calling
or insults your honor
because my fingers are burnt dry
from believing myself
needy of you
 
 
(Daquin, 1997.)