Ode to Mytyl

—After The Blue Bird (1940)

My poor girl,

Don’t you know it’s a trick?

Haven’t you heard that once you give it up, they’ll never return it?

But Mytyl,

It’s that damned Berylune

With her fleeting magic

That Light is only an illusion

A gauzy distraction

See how she never steps down the path?

Here’s the problem, love

It’s always been your bluebird they wanted

Babe,

Why shouldn’t we set the world on fire?

I’ve got a match in my back pocket

Tylette had it right

We should have ran

We should have whispered in the trees’ ears

We should have burned the forest to scorched earth

Left those shining children in the clouds

Stop haunting ourselves with unfulfilled premonitions

Mytyl,

My poor girl,

You don’t belong birthing their needs

You would have been better off in black & white

Forget the technicolor

Mytyl,

My love,

We should have snapped the bird’s neck

Pinned the feathers in flight

Raised our dead at midnight

I’d build you a nest of broken bones

I’d let you dream your nights in shades of blue

Just me and you

And on our mantle, your bluebird too

Inspired by:

“#3 came about while I was reading Mark Stand and Eavan Boland's The Making of a Poem which featured Elizabeth Bishops's One Art. I thought that the poem really played around with the villanelle form and thought maybe I should try that while also addressing my relationship with the tools and themes of my own poems. Still not sure if the poem achieved everything (or anything) I wanted it to do but it's my baby and I love it.”