Birds

Two faces peering
One city holding
This centre cannot hold.

Divide the city, break the chain;
Yet every step reeks the smell of him.

Liquid dreams fuel the creature this city has created.
They are the words, the sights, the sounds:
Boss, bose, kimos.

Lying, like kidney beans reflected,
An algebraic 'x'.
But the letters no longer touch-
She is tipped forward, precariously balancing,
By the bowling ball where her heart once was.

'To be loved to madness' her greatest desire,
Her penance perchance to drown.
Even a symmetry of feathers offers not flight,
Nor protection from the former swamp mersey.

Chained down; clipped, she can never really leave.
Her bird behind her, a constant reminder.

She sings

My bird has turned for Anfield,
And has left me out to sea.

By Sylvia Miller