BIRD
ALM No.95, November 2026
POETRY
BIRD
It is mine.
A bird.
It flies above
those who think
they talk with big voices.
quietly
my deer
is scramble-brained
fastidious and gentle
means no harm
to
my cat
about its business
of gliding, humming
but not to
my wolf
breaking from the woods
to clear
the field of music
leaving
my mad woman spitting
into the fire
thinking
there is redemption
it flies above
Tiny Perfect Bird
Loveless it
seems to guard a place of
heart in its throat
awful heights recede in its voice,
moulding space around by
recoiling from buildings and trees
in loved song it dedicates - in hope of you
its voice - which scares the wits.
now from me now
hear a consuming song.
I am not content
by my song I now declare
that you will not be forgiven
for coming here.
I am master of absolute phrasing
And of this space
it fills
the note of my whole body
in the phases of love and possession
of that alone.
This is a magic of distance
the things now sung are meant
in love in distance, in necessity
as implications consumed
by the bird alone
and so shared.
CURE
The made creature
twisted gratefully
as a weapon pointed
leapt clean
from the heart
grasp burst
blood washed
never to die
Richard Rathwell has been writing for forty years. A joint Canadian and British citizen, he lives in Mission, British Columbia. His books include The Borderline: Casebook Translations, Dono: About Writing and One Poem Forward, Two Poems Back, along with seven poetry chapbooks. He holds an MPhil in creative writing and served as Chair of the International Committee of the League of Canadian Poets. He calls his writing a kind of single-handed agit-prop in favour of humanity and the freedom of the human spirit.
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