With no one to ask, the boy I was kneels on concrete, alone by the pool. The water, clear enough to view the bottom slant, holds circles on its surface like waves moving away from the jet-black bird at its center. I notice the body oils yellow around the bird. And, not able to help, I wish for my father to come and fetch it out, but no one dives in. So the boy I was prays for the water to soak up the beak and wings, until all is soaked and nothing is left except hints of feathers like the dark undersides of waves. But I can't pray for that, when birds refuse to sink to their shadows and slide down the deep end. So I imagine my small hands entering the yellowed water, feeling for the blackbird, and lifting it out with a stream that seeps feathers and wet through my fingers, marking the concrete to say, here is where a bird dies. Remember this. __ I started with the title, then came the image of a bird in the water, which sparked memory, and, in the end, this poem that used to be in long lines and tercets became a short lined, drowned bird. |