The Sparrow
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The sparrow glistens under the scorching sun, golden yellow, trickling feathers that ruffle lightly when the breeze blows. The neighbor boy blows bubbles, rubs his sweaty hands on his overalls, and totters over until his falls, his face inches from the thing. He cries, poor birdy! what have you done? and then screams for his mother until she comes. Henry, that bird begs to be forever in your tongue (you rattle on and off about it, I know) in your clenched fist, (I know you're holding it) I huddle in a grey sweatshirt and curl onto my friend's shoulder and watch you write, tracking the grime smudging across your paper as a pastime, now reaching out and touching the seams of your worn red shirt, watching for the glisten in the heel of your boot, the lock of hair as the wind tousles it and, worrying as your jaw grinds harder each passing day as if it is our job you lay it down in pen (we imagine magnificently) and there is a stutter of breath, a jagged line. a lurch of hand that tears the heavy paper. and the sky is so blue, the birds flying so high and lovely the steam of the jasmine tea curling, curling, into our conjoined thoughts it is endless in a way, even as it quivers in the in between, making us wonder at its reality each moment. it's bleeding, the little body heaves. don't die, S whispers, squeezing my fingers until they are numb. in any case we are made forever in you: the tug of your lip, the cut that stings your thumb acridly, the days it takes to stay alive in this neverending winter. pen us henry, us and the golden sparrow.
