Mallory Rader The Brown Bird
stands on a book. The brown bird stands
on an orange book. The brown bird stands
on an orange book of poems. The brown bird
stands on an orange book of poems about cats.
Brown bird, orange book, cat poem.
The brown bird is manufactured—
ceramic sliding but placated to the same
spot on a conveyor belt. Left wing three
layers. Right wing a twin of the left.
Consistent color, expired brown eyes,
molded metal into claws.
The first statue bird as stationary home
décor was worked on for weeks, its wings
never quite matching, the artist studying
a bird rattling in a cage. Art as imitation—
God made bird, bird God’s image, bird watches
image of itself, motionless.
It’s worse than a cage. The bird stands on a book of poems.
It does not sing. It does not fly.
It is not a bird.
Mallory Rader spends the majority of her time in the fetal position. She’s currently Head Editor of Volney Road Review and has been published in Red Ogre Review, West Trade Review, The Bookends Review, Gordon Square Review, The Write Launch, and others.
Why we chose this piece: This poem is so freaking cool, and it’s a lot of fun to read aloud. The enjambement and repetition in the first stanza have such great momentum. The stilted syntax mirrors the description of the bird perfectly. The second and third stanzas develop and progress in an unexpected and powerful way. Just, very well done.
