Bird in the Rain
1
A robin gathers in heat
in search of a body of water,
green acorns litter the sand
& memory says I am the yard,
day-old puddles clustered at my waist.
The robin enters.
Dips quick. Wet,
2
a lark slaps
the whole of himself
on me
& calls himself potter,
throws a bowl of my body instead,
the hole, shallow & wrinkled,
he, a boy in the country.
It is midday.
3
It was morning.
Memory says I am the sand,
hard, hot, acorns a burn against the bird’s belly
just like the burn against his back; he is
4
on me:
a drawl,
accented longing,
he, accidental thunder:
a song,
a clap down,
5
a boy digging in a bowl;
a bird not in a ditch, but in water
in a nook, spooned out by falling in;
a bird & a stone, two in hand
in the hole.
6
No, the memory corrupts.
This is pleasure.
I am the thrush,
frantic & puffing to pluck
more acorn caps before bathing,
7
I am the bath, a breast,
surely something tender:
8
A bird. A bush.
A sight. A flash.
Anything peeping struck—
Memory: Hush. Let him do his work.
9
I saw him. He shook.
Brazen stillness.
Flight.
10
The yard, still hot, still country,
his breath, warm,
like rain,
no sign of feathers.
11
Curious: if the bird came first,
would lightning have lasted elsewhere?
12
I will ask the rain inside my mouth.
I know this water remembers, too.
13
Memory: It is an old tale.
This, how it happened:
The boy leaves a maze.
The boy finds the birds.
The birds lift the boy.
The sky heats the birds.
The birds leave the boy.
The boy leaves the sky.
The sky tags the sea.
The sea becomes a maze.
The boy treads the sea.
The sea claims the boy.
A yard holds the sea.
The yard fights the heat.
The heat claims the yard.
The heat eats the birds.
The boy eats the sea.
The boy joins the birds.
14
Still, an older tale—
this, how we happened:
a win on the morn, a bird losing wind,
a boy that I lost, a bird in the rain,
a rainwater boy, a boy I mourned,
a struck-down boy a boy-winning rain.
15
I put us back in the pastoral,
make us an oasis, our love a quenching well,
something large enough to bathe in,
large enough to whelm us.
16
He is not used to depth.
He flutters over the shallow end,
chorals P J Morton, asking me about size.
17
He insists on entering.
I become the puddle.
He dives. I pull him out.
18
I keep turning over.
He keeps turning up.
19
I keep turning him over,
half expecting Crete to fall from his ears,
burst from his mouth like Athene song by cicada.
20
He keeps turning up.
I keep turning him over.
I keep trying to revive a legend
or another waterlogged word I do not speak.
21
He does not move.
He does not even sputter.
22
Give me another word than dead.
I will not call my love that.
23
He will not call my love that.
He will not call it anything.
24
He will not call me anything.
He will not call me any.
He will not call me.
He will not call.
25
I will not call him.
I will not call him love.
I will not call him anything.
I will not call him everything.
I will not call anything everything.
He will not call anything anything.
He will not call anything anything back.
26
He will not call back.
There is nothing left to answer to.
27
There is nothing left to sing about.
There is nothing to brag about.
28
Give me another word.
Love feels forced.
Bird feels cold.
Source: Poetry (January 2021)