Love Song

Love, please don’t lift me up to any­where
Now that I think about it. I don’t lift
Up eas­ily. I’m not “han­dle with care.”
I like ground, grass and grav­ity, a gift

Hallmark should hus­tle. Who is it who’s fly­ing
Where the eagles cry (Do eagles cry?); and who
Wants Joe Cocker if they don’t plan on tying
One on, hot-boxed, until all birds look blue?

To be together is so over­rated—
That’s not my style. Fragile is fine enough
To frac­ture, like an old, disintegrated

Leaf pulled from a worn note­book, per­fo­rated
To sep­a­rate. The eagle’s wing is fluff.
The sky’s not high. Nothing’s exaggerated.

-Erica Dawson, Birmingham Poetry Review

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