the bird artist
ix.
The first bird was, by
far, the best bird. The tiny clicking of gears,
bright-eyed and warbling. In the workshop, a miracle that set the heart
into panic, the frantic beat of its wings. The children oohed and ahhed,
while the creature banged again into the ceiling. Dropped to the floor.
Took turns fetching it from the corners. The sink. Underneath the divan. Still humming
and chirping. The second bird
wouldn't fly, though we oiled its wings and whispered
sweet nothings. It
sputtered on the table and fell into the trash. The third was a
monster,
hooked beak and ragged claw. Black as the back of the closet where
the children
hid it to frighten each other. Not even
mothering could save it, terrible thing.
I buried when it nearly
took one of their eyes. But it kept rising up through the dirt,
clogged with earth and leaves, Barely moving, it would croak all night
from the garden, spite-filled and
seething.