Frightened of birds but remembering how
in childhood birds existed theoretically
as something beautiful, something named
so lyrically—nightingale, starling—
how language itself soothes
makes a prototype
how tracing a finger around the globe
provides an understanding of mountains
their miniatured roughness
how this tactile knowledge prepares
for nothing
*
parcel together some semblance of
an earlier life:
blue angel wallpaper border of a bedroom
a bottle of cologne refilled with water
my father’s clothes, stored in a hallway, all
pristinely dried clean and pressed, large and
untouchable
*
if childhood is a symbol for something
I don’t know what
I don’t know the deepness of shame
anymore
how I thought myself such a large child
but pictures prove my smallness
small little boy-girl, wheat hair, slim wrists
my body, birdy
*
I am no child; no one carries me anymore*
except for when I lay my birdy down
against wind or rain
and refuse to move
when in dreams strange men
carry me
when my legs say husband
when my legs are just legs, no joints
no crotch, no movement
to make a thing useful
when squirrels break into the bird house
I celebrate their mammal superiority
I lie down, unmovable
I wait to be carried
Caroline Cabrera is author of The Bicycle Year (H-NGM-N BKS 2015), Flood Bloom (H-NGM-N BKS 2013) and the chapbook, Dear Sensitive Beard (dancing girl press 2012). She lives in Denver and can be found online at carolinecabrera.wordpress.com.
*Line from Inger Christensen’s Alphabet
