I was the one
hiding in the corner of class
when we were in third grade.
No one saw me because I covered my eyes.

I put a cupcake on your desk
every morning, but someone
would always take it before you came.
One day, I woke up late

and had to rush to school.
I couldn’t make it to the bakery in time,
so I asked the birds for help.
They gave me a cupcake

that was spongy moist,
but the frosting looked suspect, so I
took a taste.
It made me sick

and I spent a week in bed.
In my dreams,
I arrived early in the morning,
cupcake in hand,

only to find that it would melt
as I got close to your desk.
When I got better and went back to school,
I found out that you moved far away.

Years passed.  I went to the birds
and asked them to find you,
to carry me there.  They clutched me
with their claws and beaks.

They carried me so far I fell asleep.
When I woke, I was in a tree.  The birds
pointed their beaks at your house,
and I could see you

getting in your black car
under the orange sky.
I tried jumping down, but the birds
snatched me up.  I called

and you looked, but the birds
became a furious frenzy of feathers.
You screamed and hid your face.
You drove away.

I waited
until the birds fell asleep,
but they always caught me.  They carved
names into my skin

to convince me I was one of them.
Names like Birdbrain
and Featherhead.
Now I sleep in trees

and have grown to like the taste of worms
and breadcrumbs
tossed in the park.
But it’s you I think of most

when I go to the fountain
to take deep sips.
Each time before I drink,
I stare at the whirl,

my mouth mid-air,
and I hold my breath.

 

 

 

~ First published in the Brooklyn Review, No. 23