…. Cedar Waxwing, Pyracantha II
Here are the ones I think will come: Wren, chestnut backed chickadee, hairy woodpecker, scrub jay. Words of a dream retold dissolve into pulp, into seed glue. Into chips of memory. This morning, I’ve a soft waxwing in hand. We are both stunned. His eye is cast beyond currents or cadence. He is shallow breath and a curled foot, tucked and gnarled. The purple stain I mistook for blood is rather three berries athroat bruised and slowly oozing. Berry juice tattoos his chin, small foot, my spring fingers. I remember thinking to hack down the pyracantha when all I could hear were thorns. If I listen long enough to form a new ear, I would press it low to the damp earth. There, the thrum of bacteria tickling roots might tap a rhythm I forgot to remember. Soft numb resilience, wing me a story. Scratch me a skin poem. Chase the sparrow’s tail, roll the boulder. Convince my hemoglobin. Take the spirit from the palm or cedar waxwing pluck the berry or hummingbird sip the nectar. Stillness and furious flight, one perfect circle. I dip thumb into water and droplet him back to consciousness. For a moment we are eye to eye—then we alight.
by Lehua M. Taitano
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