Normal Person

by Christos Polydorou

Oh, writer! I feel
your pain, and here
I am

spinning poetry
out of our shared misery
and mastery
of sadness. I’ve been

for years, articulators
of darkness, and light. We each

have our approach, on one
morning, you’ll prefer your eggs
fried, another morning boiled, and
finally poached! Oh, writer! Let’s

be readers again, let’s run away
to our warm rooms, when it starts
to rain, let’s quit our jobs, never
leave our rooms in January,

and read literature and eat
muffins and watch Mr Blackbird
in the garden remind us, we are
not alone in all of this, we have

been blessed, you and I. I
don’t want to be a writer,
today. I don’t even want
to be a reader. I just want

to be your love, Mr Blackbird.
Stand tall, on the highest branch,
and sing to me, because
everyone abandons me and

I abandon them too. I have been made too
distrustful of humans from my experiences
with humans to keep loving humans. Fall in love with me,
Mr Blackbird, and kiss me this

winter, and I’ll be a beautiful bird,
a female,
if you prefer,
and we can fly

to the