When I say bird

my mouth becomes a nest, my tongue becomes
a blanket, my palate hesitates and again
tastes the little feet, the wings, the feathers.
How to return to everyday matters,
as if nothing had happened,
when everything happened,
because I said bird.

I cough and feathers come out of my mouth.

And if I write it I die of astonishment,
my eyes stop on that umbrella pole
that draws the J as if it were
a drop hitting a bell tower.

How to brush your teeth, go to work,
get on the bus, as if nothing,
when everything happened,
because I said bird.

How to recover from that accent that falls
like a bolt of lightning, from those open vowels
like a mouth blowing behind
a window.

How can I feel alone or ill-gotten
or even hurt by human hours,
when I have had for a moment
in my blood the extravagant syllables
that smell of flesh, of heaven.
Do you realize that we can say bird?
Isn't that a miracle, a reason
enough
to go out into the street
with happy bones
of having lived so long,

of having said again
the word bird.