Liz Berry Reads ‘Bird’
Her words pin me to the chair,
tight as bath-shrunk Levis.
She seems far away, beyond
this stifling room at the back
of an Oxfam book shop.
Her arms stir, a bristle of her chest
into winter plumage,
a click, click, click of lips
sharpening to beak. She lifts,
perches on shelves and hardback Harry Potters,
moulting little downy wisps, transforming
from hummingbird to lark to wren.
After the poem ends, she’s still catching
delicate drafts. At the book signing,
I steal a feather from her wing.