Poetry |

“How I Became a Bird” & “Cabbage Soup”

How I Became a Bird

 

 

The birdwatcher, a Dr. Somebody,

led my father into the bedroom

to see his wife, a Dr. Someone Else.

She had turned her knee while stalking

a woodpecker in the strip pits.

The old couple were childless

unless you counted a whippet named Floyd.

I sat in my designated chair, a Windsor

of family note, kicking my legs,

behaving as I was warned to, watching

birds I couldn’t name dart

from to limb to feeder.

I’d had no experience

with floor to ceiling picture windows,

the two chairs, the table with binoculars

and coffee mugs, the glass

squeegee-cleaned with a special blend

of vinegar and water. But I was

the fastest boy I knew. So, I ran towards

the birdbath, the fountain of hose water.

Thinking the window a wall of open air,

I leapt like an African animal, probably

a springbok or an impala.

 

My father picked me up off the floor,

as Dr. Somebody asked Floyd

what species other than birds

flew into windows. He wiped the smudge

my nose had made off the glass

with his handkerchief, bemused, as if

taking notes for Audubon. He explained

through my tears how birds,

flying into what they thought

an open room, sometimes

knocked themselves out, or worse.

I was the first mammal he knew

to try the same. He searched my neck

for pin feathers. My father pressed

an ice cube to my head. Dr. Someone Else

hobbled in on her crutches with binoculars

and perched against the doorjamb.

Oh, it’s just a little child, she said.

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

 

Cabbage Soup

 

 

My father kept a Rosary in his pocket.

He was known for giving away inexpensive

holy medals and pocket prayer beads.

At one point he handed out gold-colored

lapel pin doves. I wore one on my brown

corduroy for years. Maybe I still own it,

rolling around the bottom of a keepsake box.

Mom didn’t go for all that. She didn’t

even keep recipes of our favorite meals.

She wasn’t stingy, but she held things inside

her head, rather than written on cards in a file.

I never met anyone who didn’t like

 

her Sunday cabbage soup.

After dad passed away, we hoarded his rings,

his nine-dollar watches, his fake gold bracelets.

When mom’s mind started to slip

and the kitchen grew impossible after Mass,

she forgot how to cook. I have a fragment

of a cabbage soup recipe which she talked me through.

It’s vague and spontaneous like Kansas weather.

Like her, I’ve never written it down, but tweaked

and turned her spices into my own.

Contributor
Al Ortolani

Al Ortolani’s poetry has appeared in journals such as RattleNew York Quarterly, and Prairie Schooner. His most recent collection  is The Taco Boat (New York Quarterly Books, 2022). Meadowlark Books will soon release his first novel Bull in the Ring. Ortolani is a two-time recipient of the Kansas Notable Book Award. He lives in the Kansas City area with his wife Sherri and their dog Stanley.

Posted in Poetry

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.