The Evolution of Relationships

by Lauren Davis

When I was young, my white-faced cockatiel’s eyes shone black.
He communicated with his erectile crest and cocked head.
I could not read him well. I offered little water, fewer seeds. Once,
I stepped on his tail, tearing it off onto the carpet. I wept a long time.
After, he couldn’t fly right. He kept going off to the side.

Sometimes you just stare at me, darling, your face blank.
You ask for the vodka cupped in my mouth. I crawl over you,
spilling it around. How clumsy I’ve become, grabbing the soft hairs
at the nape of your neck. I have harmed before. I can do it again.

Lauren Davis is a poet living on the Olympic Peninsula in a Victorian seaport and arts community. She holds an MFA from Bennington College, and she graduated from the South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in publications such as Prairie Schooner, Ibbetson, Spillway, and Clarion.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s