Boxed In — A Dream

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“Boxed in” — C.Birde, 10/17

 

It is his job.

He is hired to get close to people, to win their trust, put them at ease. But it hurts. Hurts to witness. The casual touch – his hand brushing her shoulder, placed at the small of her back; his smile – a brightening of the eye, a flush of skin – returned.

Turn away. Let them dine on candlelight and wine. Let soft light travel over turned silverware, along the rims of glasses raised and tipped; down her long neck, the sweep of her collar bones. He does not love her. But it hurts.

It hurts.

Turn away. Leave them. Steal off, down the length of hall. Recede into shadow, into self. Reach the door, that worn and featureless divide. Twist the well-burnished knob. Enter. Lean against the closed door, spine to wood. Survey the room, unseeing.

A Spartan space. Bare wood floors. Neatly made bed, spread with white needlepoint cover. Aged, wooden dresser. One square curtainless window, set too high in the wall opposite the door. Unrestricted moonlight paints the floor – four squares of parted light.

Push off the door. Cross to the room’s center. Drop to knees. Insert fingers along the floorboards’ seams, and peel. Peel them up and away, layer after layer. Narrow planks curl backward upon themselves, until they reveal their secret – the space below; the neat cardboard box within.

Grip the floor’s edges. Place one foot down, inside, then the other. Lower knees, hips, ribs, shoulders. Slip into that square hollow. Curl up in the dark, knees to chin, and pull the floorboards closed, back into place.

Later – later – hear the doorknob rattle, the squeak and scrape of hinges. Hear him call. The pain in his voice — the quavering upswing. His heels pace circles against the floorboards above. Back and forth. Round and round. Calling.

Listen.

Sigh.

Sleep.

 

— C.Birde, 10/17

Elegy — A Poem

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“Elegy” — C.Birde, 10/17

 

Fallen,

folded.

Blue puddle of wings

and tail —

black-barred, white-tipped —

splashed on

the woodland floor.

Beak tucked

to feathered breast.

Perfection,

furled.

Earthbound.

Bear that elegy –

out,

away,

through green and yellow

leaf-filtered light.

Once-full-throated song —

a flutter,

a wound wedged

under wish-

bone.

 

— C.Birde, 10/17

 

Peace Among Raptors — A Dream

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“Peace Among Raptors” — C.Birde, 10/17

 

Duck the trellis,

its weight of scarlet blooms

and gloss-leafed vines.

Part the clouded,

moonlit night.

Glide –

shadow-like –

along gentle swells of lawn.

Soft, unshorn blades lick and trace,

damp underfoot.

Round the curve of hedge,

and pause –

a glint of light tucked deep

within the dense tracery

of branches’ interweave.

A spark…

a flash of gold.

Gasp.

Step back.

The bird erupts,

vaults skyward.

For a moment,

breaks of moonlight limn

its sloped wings,

the smooth curve

of its delicate head.

A second wing stroke,

a third;

it shifts and changes,

exchanges gentle curves

for lean, sharp lines,

for bladed wings and

hooked beak of raptor.

Lean back,

throat exposed;

follow the small, swift hawk’s

vertical progress.

Meet its hooded,

unblinking stare –

that bright star glinting

against the night’s black

backdrop.

Flinch.

 

— C.Birde, 10/17

 

Forecast — An Image

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“Forecast” — C.Birde, 10/17

 

Thirteen

striped bands –

black and autumn red.

Thirteen weeks

of winter.

But he intends

no forecast,

searches out

some snug spot

beneath bark or

stone or

fallen tree

under which to

curl and weather

anticipated

freeze.

— C.Birde, 10/6/17

auTUMnBLE — A Poem

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“auTUMnBLE” — C.Birde, 10/17

 

The year turns

a shoulder

cold.

Discarded leaves –

yellow,

scarlet,

bronze –

drift, settle, and

rust.

Flocks tumble

southward in dark arcs.

A stumble in

the evening choir’s

collective

beat and thrum.

Impress

the frequency

and vibration to

muscle,

bone,

unconscious.

One knock, and

Autumn enters.

Stumble.

Tumble.

Fall.

 

— C.Birde, 10/17

 

Capriccio — A Poem

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“Josie” — C.Birde, 9/17

 

 

tiktik

tika

tik –

Staccato click

of claws

on gravel, grass, stone.

Clink and jingle

of tags,

oval and oblong;

steel burnishing

brass.

Metronomic wag

of tail.

Four fleet feet,

a scant ten pounds,

she sets a lively pace

and pulls me

 — up —

the MoUnTaIn.

 

 

— C.Birde, 9/17

 

Girl-Eyed Doe — A Dream

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“Girl-Eyed Doe” — C.Birde, 9/17

 

 

Driving. The road ribboning out ahead, onward. A blur of green trees to the left, cool with shadow, leaves rustling. To the right, open fields echoing the trees’ green pulse.

— She found them in her yard.

The car’s open windows gathering his words; spreading, elongating, lifting them away.

— Two fawns. The mother never returned for them.

On the right, in the distance, a low structure resolving. Beyond the field’s edge – a café. Bright white flash of walls. Glassless window casements stretching from foundation to roofline. Over the low wall, a fawn leaping out one of the wide-open casements. Stick-thin legs extending over grass, bunching, and tangling. The fawn collapsing – an angular heap of pale rust fur within the field.

Crunching of tires on gravel. The car pulling over, stopping on the shoulder. Opening the door. Jumping out. Running across the field, legs eating up ground, arms lifting. Outwards. Toward the fawn.

Don’t be dead don’t be dead.

A woman exiting the café, reaching the fawn and scooping it up. Cradling it in her arms; the fawn, struggling, kicking.

Arriving, breathless, beside them. Noticing, over the woman’s shoulder, the second fawn inside the café, standing on a bistro table.

— So wonderful that you’ve saved them!

The woman stroking the fawn’s narrow skull. The fawn, laying its head against her shoulder, against the spill of her dark hair. She, kissing its forehead.

— It was the only choice.

The woman turning, walking back to the café, setting the fawn down near its twin; draping her arms over each.

Following. Entering the windowed/windowless building. Approaching the table, and the woman, and the fawns. Observing all three slowly turning. Seeing the fawns’ faces clearly. Gasping aloud. Staring at those flat, identically stamped oval faces.

The creatures staring back – fawns with the faces of sober young girls. Ringleted hair tumbling to either side of their large, tufted, twitching ears.

 

— C.Birde, 9/17

 

 

Schrodinger’s Cat-erpillar

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“Eastern Tiger Swallowtail” — C.Birde, 9/17

 

Mystery,

wrought of

hardened protein

and spun silk,

it exists

in two states,

twice –

alive and dead;

caterpillar and

butterfly.

Each

a truth entire.

Until

the chrysalis splits

and butterfly

emerges.

Or does not.

Spun silk heart,

not yet hardened,

snug between ribs,

beating in

two states –

Hope and

Dismay.

 

— C.Birde, 9/17