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.