“…the arrow rebounded,
gave Guigemar such a wound-…”
-Marie De France,
12th century
1.
A white fawn sprang
(into heel of my hand, large stone;
Birdsong, rare in the city.)
My fingers opened,
the
arrow slid through air –
struck the
breastbone of the hind
with such force, it reflected
back,
piercing my right
thigh.
2.
I held a ruby throated
hummingbird in my palm
last spring.
The green wrapper
moist with oil.
The rubber coated pliers of
its breast
glittered in the light.
Unscrewed, waiting.
Looking at John James
Audubon's 430 Birds of America
after realizing he teaches
himself to wire up freshly killed
birds in lifelike
positions and begins to use some watercolor in the eyes,
bills and feet
then begins to draw.
3.
In the car, I wrapped my hand
around your smallest finger,
looked out over the East River.
The island of Manhattan, a
projection
onto flatwhite screen,
flickering.
We said goodbye in the line
for taxis,
I looked at the objects of
your eyes.
4.
Lines 557, 558:
Beloved, I need your
promise. Marie
De France, Guigemar
Give me your shirt.
She commenced to tie a knot
which no other maiden could
be said to undo.
And then of course,
they parted.
5.
I am no ornithologist.
I lie on the thing felled.
The wound remains the same.
Even though the body resists
suffering, it also longs for
something
to suffer. Some recognition. Unhealing
thing.
