He asked me if I had a choice
what kind of bird
would I choose to be.
I know what he thought I’d say
since he tried to end
my sentences half the time
anyway. Something exotic
he thought. He thought
maybe macaw.
That would fit
all loudmouthed
and primary colored
he would think.
(He thinks too much
I always thought.)
But really at heart
I’m more
don’t laugh now
an L B J
little brown job
except except
I’m not the
flit from
branch
to branch type
such a waste
of energy all that
wing flap
and scritch scritch scratch.
Really now
can you see me
seed pod clamped
between my beak
like some landowner,
Havana cigar
clenched
between his teeth?
No I think not
I think
green heron.
You ask why?
Personality
mainly.
That hunched look
wings tucked to neck
waiting waiting
in the sun
on a wide slab of rock
alongside a slow river
like some old man
up from a bad night’s dream
where he’s seen his coffin
and you say to him
Have a nice day
and he says Make me.
Oh you want looks
I’ll give you
looks:
long olive green feathers
a trace of
iridescence
I could stand
going out iridescent
chestnut sides and head
a black crown
yes a crown
something regal
to flash when you get
too close
dark bill bright
yellow legs
and that creamy streak
down my throat and pecs
good
not great
but good pecs
just enough for a quick
hop to the next.
The best part
no sexual dimorphism
male female
both alike
endless possibilities.
Diana García, “On the First Day She Made Birds” from When Living Was a Labor Camp.
