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Bird People
My mate admitted to another love; her name was Laura
the Librarian. Tired of his deceit, I plucked his eyes in his sleep and left in the aerie. Let him read her books with that. I loved him more than the moon and the stars. He called me The Wonderful One.
In California, there is a couple who live in a tree. Thelma Caballero and her husband, Besh, who is not pictured. According to the New York Times, last week, San Mateo County authorities stapled an eviction
notice to the trunk. But people are going back to wild and they can’t stop it.
We lived far away, where the authorities wouldn’t bother us. The aerie in the mountain, past the collapsed pulp of a Librarian’s
body, in a cave, where drippy noises are heard and bones crackle underfoot. We were going to make fat babies, one after the other. Feed them eggs. Until the Librarian distracted my mate with her wares.
I let
their babies hatch to repay debts. Left and they fed, his blood tears drawing them in. Left with the bird people. They were migrating or something. We flew out of the mountain, early morning, sun not up yet. Out
over the lake, mostly black ripple but part sky, over the fish eye and scaly leaf reflections.
I had my makeshift wings on, and my billowing robe with the moon and the stars. Looked overwing, the charismatic
King of the Bird People smiled. I smiled back, maybe he would take me underwing. That would be the most wonderful thing.
Birds are effectively indifferent to a woman’s plight. They are like poets or pagans.
They observe with aquiline eyes and provocatively drape their fine wings. They like to feel things, so suffering is attractive. So a woman might need them, and they will sing and cry, but they won’t do anything.
They don’t mean harm; you have to love them all. Their eggs are delicious.
My right wing snapped and cracked, was as effective as a pebbled feather on a beach.
Sometimes quick decisions are
faith and folly. Thought the snap was a sign--I was a flying thing--no need for wings. Tore them off, fisted the arms of the robe, and flapped. Nope. This is the way of things. You look down, and there is nothing
left to do. You have to fall.
Due to perhaps the viscosity of the air, I was able to make a gradual descent. The bird people had to keep doing their thing, so we couldn’t say goodbye. They are single minded
and so they didn’t care. Descend, descend, fierce woman, tippy toe on the water, into a floating pavilion.
A white birdy bird falls empty from moon and stars and collapse of cloth. A gold cat approaches. Bird
doesn’t yet know flight or it’s too scared. Feline teeth crunch hand wing bones, it’s quick slip feather flipped into the lake, with the cat, now a polar bear.
The catbear would eat me, for sure. But I had to
use up all options with my logic. I felt and yes, there was a penis there. We thrashed and splashed in our fur feather love.
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