- Vol. 01
- Chapter 05
After the factory blowed up we couldn't talk right for weeks. We got the smell over this way like an hour after the bang. While Mam picked up all the broken plates we was up on the tracks at the end a the garden. The trains was all stopped. We watched the smoke growin' and a lot of us wanted a get closer but for the time being we was confined to the garden. The clouds filled up with it and then the stuff comes down. You could feel it on your cheeks if you stood still and concentrated, but not on your hands if you held 'em out.
When we was all rubbing our eyes, Mam looks at us and says you get in now. The baby and me little sister had first dibs on the sinks, Mam splashing water on their faces but she couldn’t stop 'em crying. All the while she’s yelling at us to stop rubbing 'cause she thinks it’s making it worse. When it was my turn and I sees meself in the mirror it’s a real horror 'cause me lids are all swelled up and pink as rasbries.
We noticed the stuff on our tongues when we was eatin' our tea. We was on our own, Mam 'aving locked us in while she was running round all the neighbours'. Our sandwiches didn't taste right. The cheese was all prickly. Like battery tops. We fought the cheese was bad, but when we noticed the same taste was in everyfin, we realised it was our mouths.
In the mornin', our tongues was speckled all over and fat. We stuck 'em out and stared at each other's. We all 'ad monsters in our mouths. It was 'ard work to talk and none of us sounded right. It was freaky what Mam sounded like.
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Articulating finitude from great expanse, the scalpel cuts dull where
line becomes more dense more thick more arbitrary more a blurring
of distinction ---- aquamarine.
She, there across sky across sea across border and ground and unlike
skin and that one small change, that one tiny blip in the code … & I,
This is the ground enmeshed with weed with root and this is the hand
that is turning and turning it; this is the small sign buried beneath, this
potato and its eye.
throat soft wing free breath warm
eye bright tail quiver plump breast
head bent quiet sleep tail down
plump breast bill curve soft white
feather soft speckle breast chill lids
pinion quill white down throat still
still breast quiet throat shut bill
cold pillow talons stiff pinion wing
It’s the eye – cupping my hand around each body,
as I cup my hands to form a tunnel
to mimic birdcall,
I lower my lips to each gaping eye and blow.
The bird is an animal of absence.
Take its ear – a hollow coiled inside its skull,
no surplus lobe –
the emptiness of talons with nothing gripped.
They don’t come to by blows,
a double blink, kick, able
stretch of wing. Rather the whole body thrills
they upright themselves and go.
Its their little cages that keep them distinct –
without them, nestled, embedded,
we’d watch a reverse transmigration of souls,
the tit, the starling absorbed into the blackbird.
Watching a bird litter an open field,
feathers in increasingly dense clumps, we see
the latent ugliness of things not in use – the wing
torn from a playground bird is horrific
but wholesale we get the real thing
a mirror to our own sleeping.
I am tired by my own efforts, to lift
each body close to my lips, then the livening,
I guess that is where you are now.
I must say gravity does not suit you --
you are not made to weigh down on anything.
And it is with a certain reluctance that I write this eulogy:
There is no peace in your stillness.
we lie belly to back,
back to belly,
resigned to a heap.
no more hedgerows,
trees will not house us.
so many plumed sleepers
pictured, in artistic recreation.
A Victorian feast-
a wild menagerie
of depressing wildlife
This stacked hill:
on an empty train going nowhere.
Goody – I called him that ‘cause his aim was so good, well, he pretty much slung shot the lot. Warblers, hawfinches, robins, chiffchaffs. He’d pull back the stone and release it at a speed, biting his lip and holding his breath until he made impact, sending feathers flying like smoke. I’d collect the dead. Silent beaks and broken wings.
Ma, she thought it was cruel, but it wasn’t really. It’s just what happens in life. The bigger things conquer the small. Fox kills sheep. Cat kills mouse. Cancer kills man. And woman. On it goes.
If you’ve ever held a dead bird before you’ll know that they’re lighter than light. It’s a wonder they don’t get battered half to death by winds, especially up where we were – The Shetlands. The wind ripped through the air at a pace in Yell, howling past the windows. It used to sound like screaming. There was a lot of screaming back then.
In those days I used to take the wee birds home, and sit under the big tree outside our house while ma was bed. Stuck in her room with the stale air. I’d examine their bodies and stroke their feathers, sometimes plucking them free sending them sailing away on a breeze.
Goody did it for sport, but I liked to keep the bodies. I’d cut them open and peel away the insides, slipping out the pink flesh like a jewel, and hooking out the gristle - taking out the bad and stuffing the skin with cotton. Once I’d finished sewing them up they looked like new.
Whodunnit didn't matter, whether it was 'I, said the sparrow,' or the snowy-, or the barn-, hoo-ever. Who lays the blame on top of each other like that hand-slapping game for two? There's never a winner: pull the bottom one out - the whole thing beetles over.
By the cliff's edge, we'd not thought to find a dunnock, a sparrow, like, with those markings. It was way out of its neck of the woods. Seabirds live on those cliffs in vertical colonies without the hazards of horizontal pairing. It might have been one of them that did for it. The Country Code says 'cliffs have inherent dangers,' but that's a horse of a different feather. When I picked it up, its neck flopped back. It was only recently dead.
I didn't know the name 'til after, but that was where we were, outside Dunnet, a village in Scotland with its Mary-Anne's Cottage Museum of Crofting Life, its C H Haygarth & Sons Scotland's Oldest Practicing Gunmakers, its family-run hotel with twelve bedrooms and two bars, its church whose history dates from 1280 - but like I said, who's counting?
When something's gone it's gone. I'm only winging it through here.
All writers are itinerary. And all books look the same in the dark.
Collecting at dawn
calm after the savage of storms.
Flat-footed he walks. Silent.
First, the starling,
a multiverse upon his chest,
placed reverently in hessian.
A scarlet-hatted cardinal comes next,
discovered beneath pre-religious pine.
A twig cracks and those that live cloud to the skies.
Jay has already died, mocking ceased by wind and rain and tumultuous wrath. Barefoot treads the wood-strewn path floating above discarded needles he feels no pain. His search now is for Dear Kitty believed drowned in hail. Bag full, he lays them to rest as he prepares the pot. Some he’ll bake, some will sing again in bubbling broth.
and tomato sandwich wrapped in polythene
you then split by the canal, watching the starlings
wheel over the railings, and the green hands
of deadfall, twigs, up to the lip, float
down stream as she gracefully talked the difference
out of love and back to being friends.
And later, she became friends with you
a phone call to say she was in town, the cuffs
not dry on your shirt from laundry day, off
to meet her on the bald wooden chairs
eating sweet mayonnaise and black blistered
jacket potatoes, where Rod was out,
out of the picture, Have you ever wondered,
you say into space, what Prince does
on his days off? Goes to the park and rescues
fallen birds for the RSPCA, the only human
who might not smell human to birds.
The answer does not matter.
You are friends now, she reaches across
and pinches your index finger awkwardly.
You are busy thinking Prince probably
hangs out with Rod, hair pushed into a shock
on the roller coaster photo print out
while playing solitaire,
kicking chestnut leaves into the air,
sharing loaded glances over a cigarette machine at Bingo.
Rod’s terrible bongo player, but she has good taste
perhaps Prince and Rod are lovers,
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Marcus stopped showing people his work, because they kept saying it was perfect. That confused and frustrated him. The imperfections were obvious. If people couldn’t tell him they saw them, then what else were they lying to him about?
So he stayed in his shed with the bodies of birds, with his wire and his glue and his scalpel. He didn’t kill for his work. He was not sick. Instead, he pulled starlings from cats’ teeth, harvested fallen finches from below the window they smashed into. They would leave tiny ghosts behind, faint feathers printed on the glass. Marcus always made sure the window was well polished afterwards. He was not sick, but he was not stupid.
And, feather by feather, toe by claw, he set the small bodies back on their perches, with glittering, quizzical eyes and sharp bright beaks. But never good enough for Marcus, never perfect. Very rarely, he lost his patience and hurled another rejected work onto the pile. His birds would roll and scatter like soft stones, like objects, like things not right.
One day, he left his shed and fell in love. This was an accident and an inconvenience. Marcus found the whole process terrifying and complicated. Compared to this, taxidermy was a simple matter of following the instructions. She made it clear that his hobby was important to him and he should continue doing what made him happy. He visited the shed less and less.
And without him noticing, all his years, all his thoughts were his wife and children. They filled his world. The world turned. It turned until the day he woke up and Katie was dead. And there was no world any more.
you eat your chicken sandwich
while waiting for the train
(the call of thousands of birds
pierces your chest
and there’s no escape
except in the illusion
of horizontal movement)
you gulp down the last bite
and there is sky erupting
from the gap
between the platform and the train
today you travel upwards
inside this tower cemetery of birds
inside this endless column
A cliche, like death.
A prolonged lapse of unconsciousness, ellipses thrumming the air like an unknown guitar chord. My heart flaps like a hummingbird's wing.
But she is not afraid. She is fascinated.
She investigates the pile like a detective. Birds plucked out of the sky, almost hierarchical in their arrangement. Claws outstretched, reaching for something. At least, she'd like to think so. She has waited so long for a bird to land on her hand, trying to scatter salt on their tails; a pixie's dust, an long discarded old wives' tale.
But she does not touch them. She sits by the pile, bewitched, as if the birds have held her there. For it is their own sparkle, propelled by that Mysterious Chord, that has drawn us in. A haunting elegy.
How did they die so cleanly, arranged
to satisfy the rules of art in a contrived
pyramid of corpses, a bird world ‘Pietà’?
They are so real I could pick them up,
nestle each perfect form in my hand,
spread out a wing for inspection,
stroke each downy feather.
But should I grieve for the birds, or marvel
at the artist’s skill, the unerring mastery
of form, and the delicate contrasts -
Life in the hand, death in the eye?
“Be careful with it, Gaz,” I instructed, and he assured me he would. “Bury it, please, ” I asked. “Make sure it’s properly dead though Poor thing .”
He was outside for about ten minutes, told me it was dealt with, and I was so grateful. One of those moments I felt lucky to have him in my life. The starling was only the first though - over the next couple of days it seemed Hanky had declared war. A wee tit panic hopped around the lounge before keeling over. I leant against a wall, clawing at my own hands, feeling like a Victorian woman needing smelling salts. When Gary got home we talked about the need to keep the back door closed.
Hanky batted one bird around the patio for ages as I watched from indoors, wincing as her claws hooked into flesh. Another had a broken leg that it dragged behind as it tried to escape.
“Where are you burying all these birds? ” I asked Gary.
“You don’t need to worry about that. ”
to add about that, but instead it was the triple
arrow of time that pinned me down
a good long time as a middle-aged
San Sebastian, mortally wounded
by entropies, although
I do admit that through the nights
after studying the high heavens,
I entertained myself searching for versions
of that same long unceasing complaint,
like this one, for example, of Alejandra Robles:
or that of Baby Rasta and Gringo
(and please forgive the reggaeton reference):
passing by this tiny gem
for all a/Ages:
even so, I went on to find one more version
that I finally stuck with,
is it not enough?, as a way of consolation
not for philosophy but for plain exhaustion
and in a hearty envy of others luckier
ps.1> you must remember: not about love (mine, yours)
but about this triple arrow of time,
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Most days, I wake up with that red smell lodged in my nose, seeping into my sinuses, making my tongue feel salted and meaty. I was third from the bottom, second from top, tucked in the middle of your unfamiliar bodies. You were warm at first, then you stiffened above me and under me. All I had to do was take one deep breath, and you - the one on top of me - would topple off my back. But as the men walked past, prodding dead limbs with borrowed guns, eager to find a flesh still twitching, you seem to grow heavier, pinning me to the others like brothers meeting after years. The white of your eyes looking at the yellow sky seemed to please them; they moved on. What would your mothers think of me? This man, undead, covered in their sons' sieved bodies. Pretending; while guns sang and bullets found their way into deep places, between shoulder blades and in the guts of better men.
I'm alive, still. Still alive. But when I sleep on my bed, I'm always third from the bottom, second from top. I'm between you, my brothers. Pretending to sleep like the dead.
Life classes presented petrified models. He sketched them as best he could, but was always sensitive to unbidden twitches.
A bird found dead in his garden suggested alternatives. Taking it indoors, dusting it down, he had drawn it. He decided to pursue lifeless models.
How to unearth similar subjects? He would begrudge rummaging in the undergrowth for luckless carcasses, a slapdash body snatcher with a sack for his dead.
From a butcher, he sourced severed heads. As he sketched, he had half-expected them to blink their eyes open, bewildered at their decapitated state. They had made for disturbing models. He would only draw the dead intact.
He made enquiries. A sympathetic taxidermist granted him access to his menagerie.
He arranged deathly tableau: a tower of birds, a pyramid of kittens, a sparrow using a cat's head for pillow.
The tower of birds had tumbled. Even in a state of rigor mortis they failed to tessellate. They stacked on paper only, superimposed figures ascending heavenwards.
Spreading wings, he made further enquiries. He left details with a zoo, was on call to record exotic departures.
Comb all feathers to the point of frill. Sort according to size but don't forget - smaller birds may taste sweeter.
Add lemon zest, pomegranate seeds, baby rice, a trail of breadcrumbs. Adjust ingredients according to arbitrary fashion.
Bake in the centre of a gas oven. Watch carefully as they cook, checking for loss of colour and iridescence. The trick is to render the birds exotic enough to entice, familiar enough to comfort, tender enough to confuse. This may take several attempts, over the course of years. Before you try, set more traps.
Season to taste. Leave overnight in a cool, dark place.
Serve with a garnish of wasted sighs.
Brothers in pillared wing
Severing connected ties
No longer shall they sing.
Where is the tree from which they fell?
Where is the colour of life bleeding in to and out of everything?
Where is the ground?
Where is the sky?
Is this one bird, or two, or three, or four?
Is this why they cling to each other?
Would you cling to something real, but dead, in the absence of absence?
It came quick, sneaking up blades of grass, crawling over twigs and fallen leaves, easing up tree trunks and shimmying along branches. It crystalised cobwebs, then talons, feet, beaks and feathers. The thickest of down was no match; it crept in every crevice and pore, permeated skin and membrane, chilling blood and bone and marrow. They died as they slumbered.
After the pale rays of a halfhearted morning sun melted the nimble sparkle from every surface within its reach, they began to fall. Starling, thrush, sparrow, robin, tit and finch. Even the exotic green of a parakeet. They littered the lawn beneath the bare ash and oak, such perfect little corpses.
Storm enough for shipwreck,
And the wreck of me escaped to a place where I would find hummingbirds among the jacaranda trees and in the warm night rest.
I created a storm,
And I, wreck, swam through the high sea and sank soft into the sand of that place where hummingbirds flashed and jacaranda flowers lived for a day,
then, bruised and crushed, fell on the ground before me where I lay.
The storm of my escape, my conceit,
Led me back here, to the garden.
There is no paradise and birds do not hum around the great grey oak.
Because you are not here there is no warm night.
Then I create a storm,
and wreck, and search,
and all I find is a stack of feathered pebbles,
a miniature cairn,
a pile of lifeless bodies on the ground where I lay,
bruised and crushed.
“That’s right, no. You so-called food artists have lost your way. You’ve been beguiled and duped by your own arrogance and led astray by your fetid imaginations. What do you have to show for your wayward efforts? This…platter of death? No. It will not do. Do you not see? Wild experimentalism has brought us to the brink of obscenity. We have been enthralled by TV cheffery and its false idols of cuisine. Birds stuffed in to birds, pine nut foam, liquid nitrogen liquorice, octopus lollypops, little itsy bitsy flower pie deconstructed post modern sprinklings of congealed air and misguided intentions. And now this insult to nature on a plate.
“We need to move beyond this fluffery. We need to realise that ‘progress’ is not always for the better. I, with my specialised team, have been working to once again redefine what real flavour is, pure, beautiful, as nature intended, I call it ‘4 deid burds.”
It is time to prepare. We must go
to the mountain with the others and
wait for the light, as it is written
in the ancient stones.
Zenor approaches. More nightbirds flow
with the silent wind. They tell us—now
is the time. We must hurry up the mountain
to the place, before we end
and are left as burning bones.
It is very close. Many nightbirds throw
their fire feathers to the ground, no
more to fly. We, half-buried in the sand
wait for the light from the other end
to come, to purge our groans.
Zenor approaches. All the nightbirds glow.
Just hold me. There is no tomorrow
for us. But we pray tonight’s children
will find the new world in sintered sand
their place safe in crystal zones
until Zenor comes again with woe
for them, yanking planet to and fro
from dark to light, its fires fanned
in stellar winds, as if destiny planned
I lie on top of the ground where you are now buried. And the forefathers before you. I lie on top of the pile now having relinquished life for a while.
For years I had been wondering what it might feel like to be where you are, now I know. State of existence, breath, life - all of them a myth. Our past, too, is a lie, and so is our present. Perhaps that is why we chase our future with such assiduity. Only the future can make things all right.
When I last saw you lying there that lonely autumn evening - motionless, cold, quiet, I wondered what happened to that part of your being that used to react to things. Had you really seen me enter the room, you would not have continued to lie there. You would embrace me, hold me tight and ask me if I was tired after the long journey. That evening you chose to remain quiet, and since then I have forever been blaming myself for your silence. I had reached home, only a life time late. The nest was gone. Only bodies piled under our treeless heaven. My forefathers and yours. Today, I rest on top of the pile.
For a long time I thought about the state you were in. There was this need to understand, to know you are safe, wherever you are. You used to get lost in the tiny supermarkets of Tura. How would you travel across the zita riticuli, across time, through worm holes and beyond? How was I to know if you reached safely to the Haydes where eternal sunshine and Spring abound?
Today I think I have the answer.Read more >
They waited for battle
chirping all the old familiar songs,
a real dawn chorus of a feast.
Those with the brightest
plumage puffed out their chests,
and gave the orders to fire.
Soon the feathers flew,
the chirping replaced
with squawking and screeching.
The old French maids
had never heard such a hullabaloo
They threw their hands up in horror
and fled to the hills.
One by one the birds fell,
even the old guard toppled off their perches.
When the slaughter had ended
an eerie silence reigned.
The shell-blasted craters were littered
with bodies, bird on bird,
eyes sparked out
beaks still standing to attention.
Starling, chaffinch, goldfinch, wren
When shall we four meet again?
On a summer sun-dozed hill
Unter den Linden, on window sill,
Near the brook by sodden moss
Above the head of candy floss
Behind the Gothic country church
Amongst the graves and silver birch
Flocked upon dusty verges
Where crystals, silk and sunshine surges
To fill the air with angel song
An eternal feathered throng
Or must we lie in ordered mound
Still, warm and soft but without sound?
Some believe we'll be reborn
To one day have our portraits drawn.
This assassin is a ruination.
Lookouts – Sparrow today –
never know when he will appear,
at birdbath, feeder or towards sky.
It’s not right –
our best feature is our vocals,
the perfect pitch and rhythm.
No, no, it’s a striking vibration
on the easterly, and he strikes.
The bow, feather-fletched,
fires the zing of air.
No hedgerow for comfort,
no call for territory now.
Cleaved, diverse and elaborate,
as stiff stacks of feather tracery,
we become queenly fillings for
Elizabeth’s songbird pie.
back to chest,
curved white, black
patched, chest to chest,
back to back; all plumpness
with sheer edges; the hesitation
of claws, a beak dash; feathers brittled
to beached razor shells; steeled feathers
a whetted blade on butcher slab, unsheathed
to fight off the moment after this moment of near
-sleep beauty, that moment when maggots untangle
the delicacy of coiled intestines and death plucks song
from cut throats, flight from taut muscles, light from loosed
guts, unreeling. Strong wings folded, the arc sweep of wide tails
pared, bodies reduced to bared bones. Long night falls,and history
rushes by, the unlit pyre levelled now: birds to worms, worms to soil;
lifting to drifting, shifting to sifting, silting to settled; soil to new earth.
Death’s ziggurat, it of
berries and bits to live. The
greatest, who devoured
the most worms, greedy
and a-strut, vain in its
those below, is no
foundation, only base.
Seethes a great, endless
storm. At any given
moment, some feed
on the worms of desire,
some cower in bowers,
some throw wings
over their young,
and some dare winds,
All fall, it must be said,
for all forget. Once fallen,
what? All moments are
given. If born into the air,
does one dream of flight?
What further freedom
eludes? What does a witch
who needs no broomstick
want for but everlasting life?
On to. Each other.
They'll rest in one other's ribcages, interlock and become the fossil of some creature you never knew existed.
Eight wings of different sizes flapping in resistance to one another. Six talons for grabbing grubs, two that seem to hold the heads in place. The longest beak is ornamental, it would have been used for calling only; the other three are for eating.
How would this monster move? Four brains means four planes of thought. Four planes of thought means much too much over thinking.
What fossils will be left of us?
Here lay the remains of...
Returned to the worms they had eaten, who will, when their bodies have turned to mud, eat them. And then their babies will eat the worms, and the circle will be complete.
This opaque cannibalism will be beautiful. It is the truth, after all. It is continuity. The essence of Before is always in Next.
If you could pull the string out of your mouth, if you could wind it through all of your arteries without breaking it, you would find your mother attached to the other end.
tseep-tseep of the
goldfinch – the one
Fabritius set on the top
of that curious box
in his painting –
dwindled to silence.
with his thistle-hunger
and bloodied face that
Christ child of the
now weighs so little.
the pile of finches.
and sociable. Reduced
to a study in feathers, strong
claws, a delicate breastbone,
a poem’s soft armature.
Despite the chaos;
I can still see.
Sport, a sport that we play -
You must understand, they’re natural prey
I zone in on the biggest
I take my aim
Power pulling at my fingertips
I state my claim
Sport, sport is what I say,
Don’t be foolish, they’re our natural prey
Stupid, slow and languid
This fat waste of air
Pidgeons, rats – not peacocks
Why must you dismay?
Sport, it’s a sport. They are our prey.
My gun, my arm, my eyes
Are poised to take note
Two with one shot.
One straight through the throat
Sport, it’s just a sport, okay?
You must understand it’s the only way.
Feathers flying everywhere
Soon – dead or flown – they’ll be gone.
Go on, have a go -
Read more >
But my tongue seeks the brown bruises of cep, the shameful blushes of a capsicum; maybe the playful intrusion of some cilantro.
No, Chef. Four birds do not a kebab make.
Nightly, fresh home from his work shift, Auburn sat waiting for his favourite sound to start. He wouldn't turn in until the last birdcall was finally drowned deep by steady, coming-and-going traffic.
He got to thinking, sometimes out loud. There had to be a way so as he could hear the birds at any time of day. Keep that sound to his timing, enchant his days with it.
Bernie said they were wild things and that Auburn shouldn't try to catch them.
'But wild things might be missing a little home comfort,' Auburn said. 'They might be aching for walls and bedding and stuff.'
Auburn remembered, on his travels through India, he'd seen a snake charmer. A white-robed man, performing dancing magic with his serpent friend. Auburn bought a flute. It seemed to serve in his memory as the right kind of instrument.
He had a reasonable amount of difficulty learning to play it right, so that the birds would hear. He kept the notes high, flighty. Days passed, weeks. One night, when the moon was full round and Auburn's window pulled wide open, four birds came to rest on his window ledge. He gave them names and fed them seeds.
I always imagined I'd see the birds piled up neatly. The animals carefully placed aside, just out of harm's way, but it wasn't like that at all. Instead there was nothing. It was awkward really. Bill once said, people couldn't handle babies & animals shown dead on TV. But their absence made it unrealistic. Now I'm thankful for that absence.
I'm walking around and I see nothing. No one. No traces. Just everything in its proper place. Almost like a kid had just cleaned up their playhouse. It's perfect, beautiful even. But I'm still confused.
I don't know what to do. So I find myself running. I live on the edge. Chicago. Oak Park. Chicago. Cicero. Berwyn. It's all the same. So I go back to my starting point. I wonder if I am dreaming or dead. Do they see me? Am I experiencing a psychotic break? I stand in the middle of the street. Are they swerving around me? I'm now in the middle of of the oncoming expressway ramp. I'm lying down. They can't pass me if they're there. I'm rolling down. But nothing. Emptiness. Asphalt. 290 is blank. And I'm left alone.
My mind wanders to what I have & haven't done. Did Paul get my package? Will I ever meet Karen's baby? Will I ever see my mother's warm smile again? Did I miss my chance to explore Berlin with Johanna? Is it just Chicago? What about Chuckles out east, or Mish in Kentucky. Anthony, Kimmay, Song. Are they okay? Are they alive? Were they ever real? I'm so confused.
I hear nothing. Just deafening silence. Lisa told me once the deaf are always hearing a sound, a constant white noise. Read more >
Bobbie came over to me and touched me nicely, made the back of my neck and my arms wet with his mouth. I was trying not to think a the birds above us, like butterflies beating 'gainst a wall. When he was moving on top a my back I liked it, a lot, 'till he got up and pushed the pile a birds over with his stick, came back down on me. I didn't like it all that much then.
If I'd'a been older maybe I wouldn't'a had sex with Bobbie. If I was curvier, browner, had golden lights in my hair like all the girls at school had, maybe I wouldn't'a done it. But I didn't have lights in my hair. And I did want it.
We were younger than we shoulda been, but Ma always said you're always too young when you do stupid things. And I don't think I did a stupid thing, I just didn't think everyone would get so mad.
Bobbie said Borders Hill was where birds flew around trees and went to die. I said he was lying, he said he wouldn't lie to me, and I remember his hands on my cheek, big like his Pa's, and his cat eyes, and he whispered something, but it was too quiet to hear.
We went up to Borders Hill after school, when Ma was taking my baby brother to the tooth doctor for his wobbly teeth, and Pa was still working in the city. Bobbie said we'd have plenty a time to see the flying birds and I thought yes, yes we would.
Borders Hill was cold. I could hear these beating wings and singing leaves in the wind, and it seemed to make it colder. The trees were big and dark, space enough between them so these birds could fly around like bees. Read more >
I look for a sign of life, of movement;
But there is none.
I take them,
Swaying gently in a plastic bag,
To the unwanted, unkempt land.
I set them down,
In a small hollow and cover it in mud and pebbles;
They are no more.