It’s a zero sum game, but somehow you’ve won. I guess it goes without saying that congratulations are in order: I’ll even bake your favorite cake, because that’s how much I love you.
The birds wore a cloud of you as they swarmed and made game of the children -- devoured them like cake until there were no more left to be won. It’s a perfect and unbreakable order, as you’re so fond of saying.
And it’s wrong, what I’ve been saying for all those centuries about you and your allegiance to the order of that hyped-up board game that nobody has ever won. The proof is in the cake.
And, besides your victory, take the cake to mean I heard what you were saying when you told me the blackbirds had won every single empty part of you: so much for your small game and perfect pecking order.
But my words still come out in the wrong order and with the tact of a supermarket cake. That was never part of the game. Neither was the nay-saying. But please trust that I’m happy for you, because I know: all of your days are hard-won.
-- Stephen French is a hard-headed seventeen year old, bent on upending the world’s current perceptions of poetry. His pieces are fresh, encompassing, and distinctly witty. In approximately four years, Stephen French will be a national name -- give him two more after that and he’ll be known ocean to ocean. This guy has got it going on. He is pleased to be represented in Jet Fuel Review, and will undoubtedly pursue a future in writing.
