“Meaning, Lost” — C.Birde, 1/18
Choose with care.
Deliber-
ate.
This word over that.
Consider
tone and texture.
Clarity.
Bead and knot and string.
Craft each sentence.
Vanity.
Meaning slips,
coils into place
within another’s
throat.
— C.Birde, 1/18
“Landlocked Lies” — C.Birde, 1/18
An antique city, all sharp curves and unexpected angles. Filigree cast-iron gaslights line the wide sidewalks. Worn stone buildings, carved in relief, march along cobblestone streets…
There, across the street, one corner building curves back sharply on itself in a flatiron shape. Narrow alleys slide past, follow its long sides out of sight. Here, the streets are thick with a clamor of people – they spill out onto the cobblestones, eddy back and forth in incessant motion. All except one woman, who holds and defines her own space within the human river. Stationed before the flatiron building, she is dressed in a formal riding habit of tailored black velvet jacket and long skirt; a high-collared white shirt with lace at neck and sleeves; a veiled, men’s style top hat; and low-heeled hook-and-button boots.
While the sea of people swells around her, she cries out suddenly, calls attention to the “Little Green Heron” she has found! Such a surprise! Such an unanticipated and marvelous happenstance! Indeed, a medium-sized semi-aquatic bird waddles near her — it pulls occasionally at her skirts with its long, narrow, hook-ended beak. Most ignore the woman’s exclamations. But the crowd constantly reinvents itself with new folk, and gives her renewed opportunity to draw any attention she can to the “Little Green Heron”.
But it is not a Little Green Heron at all; it is clearly a double-crested cormorant. In addition, there is no reason she should be at all surprised at its proximity, for each time she crosses from one curb of the narrow corner to another, she reaches inside her riding habit and pulls out a small fringed, burgundy purse that is filled with fish. With a gloved hand, she rations morsels to the sleek-feathered black bird that shuffles its webbed feet over the cobbles and struggles to keep up.
— C.Birde, 1/18
“Rush/es” — C.Birde, 1/18
Rush…
or do not.
Linger.
Remain.
Taut,
blade-straight,
erect;
ear tuned
to hear
the rushes’
rasp and
whisper.
— C.Birde, 1/18
“Departure” — C.Birde, 1/18
Air,
churned in a blur
and stir of wings;
the back yard darkens.
Comedic clatter
of squawks and hiccups
and slide-whistle song.
The starlings arrive —
collect an offering
of days’ old cornbread
scattered —
like fool’s gold —
in haphazard pattern
over broken snow.
Goldenrod legs and
stiletto beaks
stalk and stab each
crumb until,
as one,
the flock lifts
in unpredicted tide
of departure.
— C.Birde, 1/18
“Taken Away” — C.Birde, 1/18
“So. We’re driving away from the cabin in the woods. Away from all the trees and green and birdsong. Where I thought I’d get some writing done.”
Beside me, she lifts one shoulder and looks apologetic. She always looks apologetic. For everything. Even when it’s not her fault.
“And we’re going to a day spa. A resort.”
Another big-eyed, silent half-shrug.
“I am not dressed for a spa.”
This time, she lifts both shoulders in a full shrug — noncommittal, nonjudgmental.
“They get all the seats, and we have to sit all the way back here.”
To illustrate our shared discomfort, the station wagon hits a tooth-rattling bump – my head strikes the ceiling’s inner shell. The wagon’s available seats are occupied by white-haired women in pastel sweat suits.
“And, on top of this…”
This is the point I’ve been working toward throughout my monologue; the point I’ve been trying to wrap my head around through the act of speaking; hoping that somehow, stringing words together in sentences that describe the concrete facts surrounding me, I might be able to make sense of what she’s said, accept her statement as truth.
“On top of all this, you’re telling me that we have different fathers? The man I thought was my father all these years was not? My father died before I could remember him?”
She bites her lower lip, nods silently.
With a sudden violence, a vision plays out before my mind’s eye — a man clutching his abdomen, seeking to contain the blood that seeps through his fingers. A look of shock on his face, of surprise in his eyes behind charcoal-rimmed glasses.
The station wagon hits another bump. My vision clears; incredulity remains.
She — still beside me, rattling along in the seatless, way-back of the wagon — wears, now, a look of pity. Softly, she pats my hand.
“Self-Portrait, in Cast Shadow and Reflected Light” — C.Birde, 1/18
No two snowflakes
are alike,
nor sunsets,
nor heartbreaks —
Yet…
We insist on
confining each other
to small and
ill-fitting
boxes.
— C.Birde, 1/18
“Apart” — C.Birde, 1/18
To those
of timid nature —
kind-hearted,
gentle-souled
apart —
who inch along the perimeter
between here and there,
just beyond the warmth
of belonging…
wondering…
I hear you.
I see you.
Our hearts beat
the same
a n x i o u s
rhythm.
— C.Birde, 1/18
“Suspense” — C.Birde, 1/18
Hair – unruffled. Not a strand out of place.
Jeans, long-sleeved t-shirt – unbuffeted. Yet, a rush of air courses over the exposed flesh of my face, my hands, my feet like a strong current of water.
There is nothing – not a floorboard, nor weave of threadbare carpet; no slim scrap of terra firma – beneath me.
I hang in the air, motionless; arms snugged beneath my ribs…
…and the stairwell rushes past; floors and hairpin-turns of banisters whip past in a blur.
I am surrounded by heady, accelerated motion.
Do I fall?
Or does the structure rise skyward in reckless urgency?
Suspended, I blink.
The stairwell streaks by.
— C.Birde, 1/18
“Wintersong” — C.Birde, 1/18
Sing softly,
sweetly to Winter –
that bare-boned,
pared-raw
season of ragged echoes.
Curl your lips round
the North wind,
round those clear
bright notes,
and,
with sweet ardor,
sing.
— C.Birde, 1/9/18
“Beads” — C.Birde, 12/18
The bracelet lies across my upturned wrist, arrayed over thin flesh and delicate tendons. Small spheres of milky jade green strung along a red-silk cord. Each bead is separated by a smaller gold bead and an even smaller scarlet knot. But the delicate, fibrous cord has broken; the fine threads — tassled and frayed — unravel slowly. Only the small, tight knots keep the beads from spilling, scattering, spinning to the room’s limits. Small satellites and stars destined for loss with deep shadow. The scarlet cord, a lash across my wrist; a slim weal. Each diminutive knot, a bead of blood.
Nightjars & Damselflies 