by Aiya Sakr
Learning the language of birds is tracing the turn of every tail feather, every back, sloping. (lover I trace you turn my back sloping in the sun listen) and the ninety-fifth song of the northern mockingbird another ballad, whistling. (do mockingbirds blush or does she ripple when he tells her how he wants to fuck her) to learn that starlings have a semiotics with the air: to read wind shifts. The position of a partial cloud above the oaks at the park shapes the sharpness of landing. (to call it dancing to call it flight to forget every wing stroke a gasp for higher air) Watch that mute swan there in the middle of the lake. How her back bends to look like you. (tell me beloved what it means to be a droplet pulled in her beak how god favors the chosen)
Aiya Sakr was born in the United States but grew up in Amman, Jordan, with Palestinian and Egyptian heritage. She is the author of Her Bones Catch the Sun (The Poet’s Haven, 2018). A Pushcart Prize nominee, her poems have appeared in Mizna, Nimrod, and elsewhere. She has a master’s degree in literature and writing from Utah State University. Currently, she’s completing an MFA in poetry at Purdue University, where she serves as Poetry Editor for Sycamore Review.