Monday, July 16, 2018
I’m close to certain with my choice of pigeon—this one—
under the bridge returning from the Walgreens
where I bought the pill. Its head bulges
with a legacy of green and white
feathers; magnanimous wings that decide not
to fly, its mind alright with crumbs, the hope of men
doing right, rather than whatever men take it upon themselves to do—
whatever they want, walk at night—the skyscrapers
long along the distance. What to do
or what there is to do or whether doing
is good—I remember being told I should never touch
a baby bird in its nest. That afterwards,
the mother would rather let her children starve.
It isn’t true. But how many eggs
has the fantasy kept safe,
how many feathers made elegant, my hands clean and far away
to fold snowflakes or cranes? Whatever I like.
Card towers. Circles of light
across the street. You ought to be able to see through it all.
I wonder what is the sound of this silence
without my silence. My pigeon flies
to a place I can’t follow. I have no idea what to do.