Amy King

Wooden Cuckoo

Join the parasitical world,
a chant of red-orange leaves
unites gnats in their anxious
strain. They exercise in
location for a slip off
the course of frantic sight,
drunkenly hovering, moving
nowhere bulbously.

At the lawn party, mystery
guests remain on the planet
together. Some walk through
the hoard, winged torsos glued
to their lips and nostrils,
napkins of murdered surprise.

From the home’s inside,
a wooden cuckoo sounds
the alarm, sips from
its private ritual bowl
and inaudibly sighs.