Monica Mody

Myth of Spirits

Bird

Bird of thought

I sense you behind my cheekbones

Fitting into my eyesocket

Pressing your feathery body inside my skull

Tapping the center of my forehead with your flimsy head

You, my throat too

We softly bend like wist

fulness

Pale warm blue, you are dancing in me all the time

Your beaks leave ghost beak ^ triangles ^ in a neat row across my scalp