I found it on your belly, and caught it
with two fingers. I kept the bird
on a little perch behind my ear.

I plucked its feathers, stuffed them
against my jaw like chewing tobacco,
and spit the black threads

into a styrofoam cup. One night
the bird died. Crushed beak, split
bone-we did it. Your heart

jealous, my body disgusted
by the taste of seed and bark-
we didn't want the bird.

We did it over dinner,
you reached into my memory
by placing a finger

in my ear. I placed a hand
in your mouth to catch the bird
and we smashed it

together. This is simple, we did it
and spoke of it with ease. Through
the memory, we killed

the bird that was never ours.
Now we've become
bird butchers, you say

and throw the bird's limp body
in the trash. I reach to clasp
your face, but have lost

both my hands. Each finger
disappeared into your pupils,
our little black cruxes.




About this poem
"On a walk with my grandmother we came across a dead bird. I offered to rescue the bird-to bury it-but my grandmother told me to leave it-dead birds are a bad omen. I still wonder if the bad omen was brought on by seeing the bird, or by leaving it."
-Natalie Scenters-Zapico

About Natalie Scenters-Zapico
Natalie Scenters-Zapico is the author of "The Verging Cities" (Center for Literary Publishing, 2015). She teaches at Juan Diego Catholic High School and lives in Salt Lake City.

***
The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.


(c) 2015 Natalie Scenters-Zapico. Originally published by the Academy of American Poets, www.poets.org. Distributed by King Features Syndicate