Corner of 11th and Hoyt

Out of the corner of
my eye, I spy
a giant bird. An iron
bird. A giant orange
iron bird. It grasps me
with one eye. Its eye is
a bandolier. Bird in a
refrain keeps its
bandolier on me. I don’t
want to sing. The bird
nods like a friend whose
attention is elsewhere.
I dig iron crumbs out
of my pocket. I wonder
if time will turn birdie
green with rust. Maybe
the sky isn’t locked.
Maybe the bird likes
German porn. I reach
the corner of 11th and
Hoyt. A white VW van
slows down. I wave my
arm at the van. It creates
breeze. I am a conductor.
I raise my batons and
the traffic around me
swirls and arpeggiates.
I pull the song note by
note into being. I eat
rust. The bird swallows
chords in dainty
green sips.

 
 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nicole Zdeb is a writer and researcher based in Portland, OR. She writes on the couch under a blanket, surrounded by her three feline muses.

 

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