Did you know?
Birds are territorial.
They return to their original nest
from fields and secret winter hide-a-ways.
There’s a moment in late summer,
when their chicks discolor the sky
trying to escape what leaves them imperfect,
like the memory of
little yellow stains
amidst pieces of broken shell
defacing the blossom lined sidewalk.
It only takes one long rain to erase a generation.
When that happens,
pathways let off a strange mist,
flowers tilt their faces to one side;
trees, shrubbery—anything taking up space—
close rank and nests disappear altogether.
Even the engineer is caught looking into space,
unable to rebuild, to locate the epitome of matter.
It all recedes, like a dead glacier
losing its hair, sliding away until no one speaks.
If you’re looking for someone to appear,
I’ll feed you.
But if you’re among the returning birds,
find your empty nest amidst the bald tree.
Sit there and remain hungry.
I am the refugee, not you.
Entwined among sinew and twigs
is a thread of hair, a few barbs of inheritance.
It’s hardly visible, but it calls backward
like the merchant who anticipated selling
off your featherless skin
in a long line of rummage sales.
The past decade produced an excellent level
of unrest; its last days, a sorrowful blend of homeless birds.
And yet, I’ve made a place for you—
a vacant home built from mud and briar,
something clever, just beyond the other side.
(c) 2013 Tovli Simiryan
Challenge: Using prose or poetry, write whatever you want (fiction, nonfiction, or essay) or explain the type of writer’s block where you just don’t want to write something.