Bird, Therapy, Fish Tank
By Emily Berry
bird
I was making my way through the grounds of a stately home which had been turned into a public garden. I seemed to be being followed at a distance by a huge bird, like a heron, but pink, kind of coral-colored. I felt like it was mimicking me. I hurried on to try to get away from it and saw a door into a small hut. I went inside thinking I would hide in there until the bird had gone away. The hut had windows at head height so I was able to look out and observe the bird’s progress. I saw it approach another girl, who was with a man, probably her boyfriend. They were crouching down to look into some kind of display case. The girl was dancing, unaware of the bird, which was now right next to her. It started moving in time with her body, but slowly, as if insulting her. Then it moved off in my direction. I ducked down below the window. There was a small bolt on the inside of the door but it looked weak. I worried that the bird would hear me locking it, so I held the door shut with my hand. When I heard breathing I knew the bird was right outside. The breathing got louder. The bird was taking its time to leave. I don’t know how it got in. Its claws were like the claws of a giant insect, pink and reaching. There was one inside me. Deep. I was screaming. It was a very beautiful bird.
therapy
There were only two men in the therapy workshop. One was a young man from another country, whose means and modes of self-expression troubled the rest of the group, but we could not be sure to what extent this sense of trouble was prejudicial and based on our poor understanding of cultural mores which in this young man’s country of origin were considered perfectly standard. He was always drawing up overflowing buckets from his deep wells of sadness and then dropping them back down again almost before anyone had got a glimpse of them. At least, that was our guess, because he generally maintained a deep, impermeable silence which had the queasy atmosphere of a lake that was so still as to appear to be a solid, or perhaps a gel, something sealed with a film, a film which—one had the impression—had formed through the substance’s fear of contamination through exposure to air.
fish tank
I watched a woman in a fish tank shitting directly into a tortoise’s mouth. It was meant to be some kind of spectacle—she was invited to do it and was very happy to, and the tortoise was happy to eat.
I was making my way through the grounds of a stately home which had been turned into a public garden. I seemed to be being followed at a distance by a huge bird, like a heron, but pink, kind of coral-colored. I felt like it was mimicking me. I hurried on to try to get away from it and saw a door into a small hut. I went inside thinking I would hide in there until the bird had gone away. The hut had windows at head height so I was able to look out and observe the bird’s progress. I saw it approach another girl, who was with a man, probably her boyfriend. They were crouching down to look into some kind of display case. The girl was dancing, unaware of the bird, which was now right next to her. It started moving in time with her body, but slowly, as if insulting her. Then it moved off in my direction. I ducked down below the window. There was a small bolt on the inside of the door but it looked weak. I worried that the bird would hear me locking it, so I held the door shut with my hand. When I heard breathing I knew the bird was right outside. The breathing got louder. The bird was taking its time to leave. I don’t know how it got in. Its claws were like the claws of a giant insect, pink and reaching. There was one inside me. Deep. I was screaming. It was a very beautiful bird.
therapy
There were only two men in the therapy workshop. One was a young man from another country, whose means and modes of self-expression troubled the rest of the group, but we could not be sure to what extent this sense of trouble was prejudicial and based on our poor understanding of cultural mores which in this young man’s country of origin were considered perfectly standard. He was always drawing up overflowing buckets from his deep wells of sadness and then dropping them back down again almost before anyone had got a glimpse of them. At least, that was our guess, because he generally maintained a deep, impermeable silence which had the queasy atmosphere of a lake that was so still as to appear to be a solid, or perhaps a gel, something sealed with a film, a film which—one had the impression—had formed through the substance’s fear of contamination through exposure to air.
fish tank
I watched a woman in a fish tank shitting directly into a tortoise’s mouth. It was meant to be some kind of spectacle—she was invited to do it and was very happy to, and the tortoise was happy to eat.
Source: Poetry (January 2020)