Bird Man

By MARIA TERRONE

“You were only waiting for this moment to be free.”
                       Lennon/McCartney, “Blackbird”

As a Bronx kid at a homeless shelter, he watched
a peregrine falcon devour a pigeon on the windowsill,

and what began in violence leapt to awe,
and awe begat beauty.

He’s grown to be a birder who shares our passion.
Through the lens, he sights a warbler

and the flash of a goldfinch who’s migrated North,
whispering his excitement. 

And yet he remains apart, that rare species among us, 
for unlike us, when alone

he must take the greatest care removing
binoculars from his backpack,

must handle them slowly, keeping them in full view 
for they are black,

the color and size of a gun. Am I wrong
to think of him as a blackbird—no, a starling,

iridescent, grazing the earth at dusk and dawn 
in city parks but gazing up, not down? 

But he also peers into the dense
hiding places he knows well, 

the shadow-cover where the living
must sometimes take refuge to stay alive.

 

Maria Terrone is the author of the poetry collections Eye to Eye, A Secret Room in Fall, and The Bodies We Were Loaned, and a chapbook, American Gothic, Take 2. Her work, published in French and Farsi, has appeared in such media as Poetry, Ploughshares, Poetry Daily, and The Hudson Review and in more than twenty-five anthologies. At Home in the New World was her creative nonfiction debut. She lives with her husband in Jackson Heights, Queens, one of the most linguistically and ethnically diverse places in the United States. Visit Mariaterrone.com.

[Purchase Issue 21 here.]

Bird Man

Related Posts

Image of hawk in sky

August 2024 Poetry Feature: New Poems By Our Contributors

NICOLE COOLEY
The incinerator smoke an incision in the sky. / My daughter no longer small yet still I want to swallow her back into my body. / Sky a scalding. / My daughter asks me to stop saying, I wish this wasn’t the world you have to live in. / In my dream my girl is the size of a thumb I catch between my teeth. / Sky all smoke.

Black and white picture of a house.

Daddyland

CIGAN VALENTINE
We ask you where you had gone, / And you say you became blue / From when the sky had swallowed you, / And spat you back up. / For you are the worst type of unbeliever. / You only believe in love. / You do not believe in forgiveness. / Before eating, / We recite your list of those who have wronged you.

Anzhelina Polonskaya poses, showing only her face.

The Visual Poetry of Anzhelina Polonskaya

ANZHELINA POLONSKAYA
Snow, listen up. Your eyes are dead. / We know full well we’re being led / like hostages of universal blindness. / Who are we, then? Unknown and homeless. // We push ahead, there’s howling all around. / And far away we see a burning bush. / The birds that flew off south / will not return. Our Rome is smashed.