Moveable / Feast

by SARA WAINSCOTT


When a martyr
loses her head over what she loves
future people hold a festival in her honor.
Air’s exactly similar to itself

I said, not speaking as a scientist. 
Audubon had his regrets: he shot and killed
every bird he painted. What I want
won’t hold still / what I admire

is ability to blur. A head upon a pike
withstands / birds are perfectly
thoughtless about where they eat and shit.
I want to exhale a little while

in the future: when daisies pied and violets blue:
truth can’t hurt me any more.