feebly, she tries1.
the weight of a quarter–yet
still beating, whole life.
the wind whistles through
sunlit ancient leaves2. stilled, i
listen for gods’ song3.
a northern flicker
bops its head in the tall grass.
charmingly, it smiles4.
between the searching,
a swollen heart fractures in
a kaleidoscope5.
1. it’s a black-capped chickadee fledgling. it’s no older than two weeks, with fresh feathers awkwardly contrasting its baby down plumage. she (or he, it’s impossible to sex them without being invasive) is trying to get away from the pavement, into the peaceful reclusion of the shade. but she cannot. her wings aren’t strong enough. she isn’t strong enough. thus, she painfully writhes on that hot concrete dungeon, crying, begging for her parents to come by. her chirps sound like a metal on a porcelain plate, pitched high enough to make me wince. i ask myself: should i touch it? a wilted flower lies beside her, a pale pastel purple, mimicking a late winter sunset.
her parents, her own blood, who created the air that fills her hollow bones, keep an awful, pained distance away, trying to teach their daughter how to fly, alone.
2. saying that the wind whistles through the leaves is not enough. there was a tune, a song, a quiet hushed mummer in there. like i was standing at the back of a church while each devoted follower whispered their prayers, except i’ve never been to church, except there was something larger than a religion in these trees. they danced with each other, the notes, the sunkissed leaves, the wind, with hope tied to the end of them, in some sort of classical ballet variation that i must have seen as a kid.
to say that they were sunkissed is not enough—they were enveloped, consumed, desired, in which each orbits the other like robots following their only line of code. in which there is affection beyond my understanding. as if i had only taken a glimpse at a moment i still do not exactly understand. yes, it was as simple as the sun falling between the trees. there was nothing around, excluding the astray bumblebee finding its way home. there was nothing around, but everything was there, bleeding out onto the empty road.
3. the gods do not speak back. they haven’t been there since the gases in the deep abyss of space fell together—a dramatic collapse. but still, i listen, and still, the wind calls.
4. although northern flickers aren’t particularly rare in vancouver, i’m surprised. he landed too close for typical comfort—i can clearly see the spotted breast, the flash of vibrant red at the back of its neck, the obvious sign that he’s a male. his single black eye drills into me, barren yet vast, like an uncovered manhole. i’m sure he’s nervous. he keeps glancing at me as he picks at the ground, searching for dinner. yet we soon reach a sort of equilibrium, where i stay, breathing, and he stays, watchful. i don’t see it, but he smiles. a parental smile, as if i was a chick that’s fallen early from its nest. i step closer, tempted to snatch a good photo, before stepping back, wanting not to ruin a good moment.
a european starling comes and startles him. he flutters away. that flash of red blurs into a streak and disappears, like a shooting star.
5. in it, i see you. everywhere i go, kaleidoscope or not, i see you.
stumbling to my boyfriend’s house, 1:30 am, late, doozy, and there: your figure in the shadow of the bus stop. each thread of hair and all, as if you walked right out from history to the present dimension, still wearing the same damned outfit. against the background of the damp nightclub, with bass as dense as autumn fog, there: your face flickers between the strobing lights as if you’re coming to me with a prophecy, with an omen, passing through your world to mine in a distressed, desperate fashion. i clutch your face, drunkenly whisper an apology against your ear, and wake with a stranger.
i wonder what it would have been like. to be in love with you—a better you, a kinder you, a loved you. how that first delicious tumble to your bed, reaching in to brush against your soul, would have felt like: cold, bewildering, a strong sense of pressure; i must satisfy you; no, not in that way, but such that you leave known and desired, such that you leave trusting that i love you6. how the conversation would be strained, clumsy, heavy with untold truths and light with lies, but hidden between them, there are moments where we resonate like tuning forks and the whole world leans in to listen.
it would be nothing like how returning home to my boyfriend would be: him making dinner for two (shrimp alfredo with roasted broccoli), a tender touch, an easy talk about our days, co-workers, friends, gossip intertwined with worries. there: a warm, enveloping fall to our bed, melting together like rich chocolate on the tongue. it’s simpler here; there is skin i’ve felt every inch of, a body i know in both darkness or light. and yet i dream, and wonder, and hallucinate you; a horrible, twisted secret.
6.