Bird-Friend
A creature sits on my chest, heaving like asthma,
vintage TV screen-head on a generous coal body.
Its glossy, feathered coat catches my bedroom light.
I reach out to run my fingers through its feathers, but
I meet metal, fine as tissue. I get cut on my thumb.
Beneath the feathers where I expect warm flesh,
my fingers brush concrete.
The creature leans over me as I try for sleep,
pressing its TV-face to mine.
I see the lights flicker even when my eyes are closed,
replaying the ill-disciplined mistake.
How did you miss that?
How could you?
I run my fingers over the top of the
creature’s head, hot and buzzy with static —
behind, the sides. There is no off button.
I strain to push the creature off my chest.
Let’s go for a walk, I tell it.
It shuffles its clawed feet, tiny beneath its
dense body. I can’t.
I only know how to sit on people’s chests,
Weight concentrated on my middle.
Let’s just try, I tell it. I grab my keys,
hold the elevator button as it shuffles
down the hall. As my feet start to move,
I wonder if I should make a run for it,
but the creature now looks small and sad,
TV face grey and blank, as I turn around
to see where it is.
Hurry up, I say. It’s so nice out tonight.
The air will do us good. I walk past skinny trees,
past night-shift hospital workers on smoke breaks,
past neighbours bringing their dogs out to pee.
I turn around. My feathered friend
is nowhere to be seen.