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Terri Ford

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by this poet

The Lord is my Arctic, my tube
nosed bird.  He hoppeth over
the surface of waters, my Jesus
bird who doth follow my ship.

He broods over cliff's edge, ponderous
over all of the penguins balancing
their eggs on their feet.

The Lord is my giant frigate bird.  I am
his limpet, krill, and his plankton.
He is the
It is 1974 and out the institutional open windows 
of the college dorm, nylon bikinis in floral prints 
are plummeting like the cheap bodies of birds. And then

your mother's large white briefs like a mainsail, like 
a flag of surrender, begin a slow dancing down current, 
cinematic, lithe. All of the faces