III. Imago

February 14th. Black eddies of ravens fill the sky above the large walnut tree at the edge of the field. White frost clings to dry / withered stalks. Finally, the whirl deflates. The birds perch and feed on forgotten nuts. From the ink-dark, breath-dank classroom, I can see with my mind’s eye and burn to join them in that field, in that sky.

Later.

Other fields, other skies, oceans of separation. Sonoma sunsets—but for now, only brown earth sloppily patched with snow, a sky brimming with cawing ravens. They circle overhead and drop stones onto tough nuts. They never miss.

Now childhood is a nightmare from which I sometimes wake up.

Riddle:

Mrs. R., who went to the backer’s every night at 3:00 to buy a baguette while her husband slept, always came back empty-handed because she’d swallowed it whole.

From the classroom, I can see them soar, and my freedom soars with them, the thirst that can be quenched only by frozen air 13,000 feet above sea-green, lichen-stained Alaska. One hundred days and crossing.

February 14th: in the cool sunrise of Texas, blue jays trade insults in the magnolias. So far away from home, and nevertheless right there, because home somehow dilated to encompass live oaks, the compromised limbs of pecan trees, grackles, amazing bats, exotic weeds dried up by thirst and winter. Everything different—the very same.

When drunk, Mr. R. kicked his son’s ass up and down the street. He accused the stunned, stunted, silenced boy of sneaking out to steal car hubcaps in the middle of the night. “He snatches the damn things faster than a Bishop could bless them. What a Little Bastard—he will end up on the gallows, for sure. Sweet Jesus-Mary-Joseph, we can’t even figure out where he hides them.”

Believe me when I tell you blue jays sound like ravens at 7:00 am. My back presses against the cold plaster. You pierce me with geological sweetness. The small birds of pleasure flutter inside my trunk; its fat earthworms slither between my roots, which gulp down oxygen. I wonder how many stones you had to drop from the sky before you broke me open. I wonder if I pulled my roots out and traveled the four corners of this not-so-round planet—or maybe the journey leapt out of your blue-green, earth-colored eyes, a lilting ravishment, a terror without forewarning.



Originally published in Branches. 4:2 (2005). 16 Oct. 2005. <http://www.branchesquarterly.com/4.2/Binder2.pdf>.