“Sixpence,” by Jeff Lytle

Sixpence

I got the unremarkable cake.
Couple dismal birds inside me,
 
like those ones with feathers
like a Spanish hat. Grey conquistadors
 
fluttering against my ribs. Because
I’m a cage. Get it? And I’m hollow, holding
 
nothing, without them. Mediocre, I’m
a cake. I got metaphor, the fat lot of good
 
it’s done. Now, nothing can stop me but
bitter song. The brittle twittering within.
 
A handful of black finches that peck the
seeds I’ve sown. The meager hatreds.
 
Lignite beans of Dis that root in black ground
and bear black wheat for the black mill.
 
And then a bitter blade of cake from
brittle black birds. Twenty-plus-some
 
baked in there. I murdered their
dark little voices to bring you this
 
beautiful, wretched, inconspicuous
cake. Now eat it.

— Jeff Lytle