Bird Man

By MARIA TERRONE

“You were only waiting for this moment to be free.”
                       Lennon/McCartney, “Blackbird”

As a Bronx kid at a homeless shelter, he watched
a peregrine falcon devour a pigeon on the windowsill,

and what began in violence leapt to awe,
and awe begat beauty.

He’s grown to be a birder who shares our passion.
Through the lens, he sights a warbler

and the flash of a goldfinch who’s migrated North,
whispering his excitement. 

And yet he remains apart, that rare species among us, 
for unlike us, when alone

he must take the greatest care removing
binoculars from his backpack,

must handle them slowly, keeping them in full view 
for they are black,

the color and size of a gun. Am I wrong
to think of him as a blackbird—no, a starling,

iridescent, grazing the earth at dusk and dawn 
in city parks but gazing up, not down? 

But he also peers into the dense
hiding places he knows well, 

the shadow-cover where the living
must sometimes take refuge to stay alive.

 

Maria Terrone is the author of the poetry collections Eye to Eye, A Secret Room in Fall, and The Bodies We Were Loaned, and a chapbook, American Gothic, Take 2. Her work, published in French and Farsi, has appeared in such media as Poetry, Ploughshares, Poetry Daily, and The Hudson Review and in more than twenty-five anthologies. At Home in the New World was her creative nonfiction debut. She lives with her husband in Jackson Heights, Queens, one of the most linguistically and ethnically diverse places in the United States. Visit Mariaterrone.com.

[Purchase Issue 21 here.]

Bird Man

Related Posts

Image of a sunflower head

Translation: to and back

HALYNA KRUK
hand-picked grains they are, without any defect, / as once we were, poised, full of love // in the face of death, I am saying to you: / love me as if there will never be enough light / for us to find each other in this world // love me as long as we believe / that death turns a blind eye to us.

many empty bottles

June 2024 Poetry Feature: New Poems by Our Contributors

KATE GASKIN
We were at a long table, candles flickering in the breeze, / outside on the deck that overlooks the bay, which was black / and tinseled where moonlight fell on the wrinkled silk / of reflected stars shivering with the water.

Messy desk in an office

May 2024 Poetry Feature: Pissed-Off Ars Poetica Sonnet Crown

REBECCA FOUST
Fuck you, if I want to put a bomb in my poem / I’ll put a bomb there, & in the first line. / Granted, I might want a nice reverse neutron bomb / that kills only buildings while sparing our genome / but—unglue the whole status-quo thing, / the canon can-or-can’t do?