"Red Wings"
A child does not know where the horizon
--whose curves are like scythes
and sounds are like robins--
ends because he is not tall enough to see
there is no end.
*
Six years old dreaming with tin soldiers,
listening to the hushed string quartets
of dry oak branches that creak like grandmothers,
lying in the dirt of the cul-de-sac.
They remind me. I turn
something wings
head watching
me moving towards fastjawopenedclosed--
wake up.
*
Six years old and I'm wearing pajamas;
the cul-de-sac is wide like a whale's mouth,
the pavement, jagged. Beside it, there is a grassy hill,
a fence. At the bottom we believe in electricity,
a force that strikes us down, mutes us
our hot breaths. Children, we move in packs.
*
Alone and yet with the red bird--
--who is he?
Something from behind the wooden bars,
an early sound given intent--
--grass beside my house; we are motionless--
--something genetic,
something I should fear,
worthy of being borne in the bones--
--his wings flap, and I wake screaming.
*
MOTHER: (Singing)
There's a lonely little robin in a tree by my door
And it waits for it's mate to return evermore
So remember, please remember, that I'm lonely too
Like the lonely little robin I'm waiting for you.
*
Only one image remains:
--a red bird with man's arms and man's legs pours
golden water from a pitcher into my brother's mouth--
and I fall sob into the carpet.
*
A dream parts like a dove--
--the red bird stands with a white one
and just watches the sun wake up
the horizon like they've been doing it
for centuries I'm six years old
in the wet front-lawn grass,
don't understand...still don't...
awake a day older, first grade--
--you open that door, let it taste the air
and it disappears without farewell or explanation,
gone like a child in a busy room.
© 2009 Michael McSweeney
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