The Credo of Loplop

Beneath the grattage of his dapper Dada
I will always believe in
the red-headed bird-king’s beak,
a cardinal decalcomania peeling
from the seams of his degenerate artist’s coat.
When he fled his bare-feathered nest
to sculpt the high desert,
he was collaged already
with childhood’s talons and quills.
Solarized, enrobed in a lover’s ambiguity,
he scratched through paint thickening
like the glassy crust of time
until it shattered beneath him,
as one day beneath us all.
He flies forever in skies of fossilized ocean,
eluding the traps of airplanes, the forest at last.


Sonya Taaffe

Sonya Taaffe reads dead languages and tells living stories. Her short fiction and poetry have been collected most recently in As the Tide Came Flowing in (Nekyia Press) and previously in Singing Innocence and Experience, Postcards from the Province of Hyphens, A Mayse-Bikhl, Ghost Signs, and the Lambda-nominated Forget the Sleepless Shores. She lives with one of her husbands and both of her cats in Somerville, Massachusetts, where she writes about film for Patreon and remains proud of naming a Kuiper belt object.

Photo Credit: Rob Noyes

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