Pinning the Bird to the Wall ~ Poems
by Devon Miller-Duggan, 2008
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Devon Miller-Duggan's first book doesn't feel like a first book: the poems exhibit the range, depth, and control of a mature poet. Born from the lush language of the flesh, they sweep outward with an intelligence and a deep compassion. Miller-Duggan knows fear, but she also knows the clarity of the line, the metrics, the architecture that can stand against it. "If I cannot love enough, is love itself enough?" she asks in "Love Poem." Her iambics answer for her, their brave steps through a complicated life.
–Fleda Brown

FEAR
The shark edge of a tin lid
slips under the tongues of children.
The dark edges in, all hands,
working under someone's skin,
lifting the skin of her belly away from her belly.
Severing the mask of face from face.
Soldiers foxhole between bone and bone.
Dogs and surgeons run in the streets.

Good mothers slit the eardrums of their children
before soldiers enter the house.
Good mothers hold their infants inside themselves
until they're re-absorbed.
Good mothers leave for new cities
and offer their breasts to living children.

ELVIS IS AN ANGEL NOW
For Fleda Brown

With every step he takes, Astroturf appears beneath his feet.
When not in use, his wings fold in
upon themselves, like fans, sort of, but really just
exactly in the shape his capes fell into
when he leaned down to touch the desperate hand of one
who loved him so, who brought him flowers, her devotion,
all her prayers, who bears his name imbedded in her skin
and hears his voice and blessing every time the thunder
rolls across the velvet black of night. And now he has
no need of jewels, of studs, embroideries to pull the faithful eyes
across his manly shoulders, or on down toward his belt,
buckled rightly huge across the center of his hips, where his
procreation flared, or down to where bells swayed 'round his ankles—
no, now all his raiment glows in light and dark and heavens ring
and sigh along with every mystic note he sings, and every note
he sings is plump with grace, grace, grace, and
where he breathes, the faithful swear the air smells all of butter.

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