Angry Young Bird, c. 1959, Hand-built stoneware with iron oxide glaze, by Rudy Autio, U.S. (1926-2007)
It was bad enough being called
“Bird Brain,” “Chick,” or “Chickie,”
bad enough that you had to let
everyone peck you on the head,
disappointing to learn
you were “less than eagles.”
Still, until today, life wasn’t bad
with your steady schedule,
fresh air and your regular portion of feed.
You heard stories of birds—singers, speakers—
in cages, but that you didn’t quite believe.
When someone said, “feather pillows,”
you said, “Foul play? Poppycock!”
Though you envied robins, sparrows,
you heard stories of cats, lice, plate-glass windows.
And they had to move every six months.
So you pecked and scratched, content enough,
encouraged younger birds to get clipped wings.
But now! Today! Horror itself!
Your best friend’s body running through the yard—
blood gushing where his head should be!
He is stumbling, staining the neat row of narcissus.
Suddenly you understand all those aromas!
Sunday dinners! Barbecues! Thanksgiving!
You know where all the eggs have gone!
Comments are closed.