Everyone is writing poems about blackbirds

The blackbirds are all dying and the fish too she said
I said yes but was thinking of how many people
must have used that in poems by now and
immediately began mapping my own
It's a sign that god is pissed off.  God isn't really a god,
it's just mother nature, and mother nature is pissed the fuck off she said
She said, I cry sometimes because there is nothing I can do.
Nothing.
Everything is all money and sex.  Money and sex are wonderful, I said.
She has grey hairs at the crown of her head and she's looking
right at me.
Too young.
I go home and put on my shortest shorts,
the black ones with the strings and
I think I finally like my legs because he likes my legs
He tells me all the time
and he grunts when he touches them
even when I haven't shaved them smooth and they only smell
like bar soap - nothing like purple-berry-blossom.
The blackbirds
with the tips of their wings painted
red and orange
laid out in rows in field in parts of the country
we have never visited (and now probably never will)
are beautiful, mosaic
crisp colored winged windows in churches
where god is God and
Mother Nature has to be
taken care of
controlled.  And money and sex and my black shorts with the strings
are controlled and boys can't touch themselves
for fear of being struck dumb
or blind
or down in the field with the
blackbirds