''Blue Birds Aren't Blue'' by Natasha Rose Clarke, New York



She waltzed into the room 

adrift and confused by the sudden source of her misery.


Her hair dangled in front of her eyes hiding her now faded emerald-gray gloom.

She was a he and he was a she.


Her hair was knitted together by knots creating a nest

and the possibility of a blue bird living in her hair;

with the scraps of fabrics she used to sew.


She walks into her room sits in front of her mirror

and she wonders if she could comb through the mess.


But that was months ago when she wondered.

Even the glimpse of a thought of a shower

totally flies over her bird nest

as she sleeps in demise and perspiration. 


Blue birds, once again, are beautifully winged beasts.

How could those beautiful birds go through her hair? 


Their wings must've molted and died leaving marks of their presence.

When their wings grew again, they'd be brown and gray—

just like her faded eyes. 


The blue birds aren't blue.


They're gray, like unhappiness.



—Natasha Rose Clarke