Self Portrait of Girl in Dream

Self Portrait of Girl in Dream

 

The banana trees were in bloom,

their broad leaves just beginning

to split and curl.

Dozens of tropical birds

the size of condors

with bright blue plumage

and hooked bills

perched together in a leafless tree.

 

Then you appeared, in a nightgown

too sheer for modesty.

The morning light penetrated

cotton, kissed your pale flesh,

and you spread seed

for the strange birds.

 

A cavatina of Mozart’s played—

first from your stereo, then from the sky itself—

(the girl in the song sings

I have lost it! Where is it?)

and the birds began to swoop.

They were molting, and you stopped throwing

seed and picked up a long blue contour feather.

Blood soaked the quill like ink.

This frightened you, and you ran into the house.

 

Oh, where is it? Where is it?

You looked out the windows to see a rush

of blue and red. The birds blocked sky,

beat their wings against the door for entrance.

You thought only of your dog,

and tucked her, murmuring endearments,

into the linen closet.

 

The cerulean sky calmed.

You, charming girl in white, opened the door

and peeked—the birds had flown away, or disappeared.

Laughing, you ran into the grass,

noticing only then there was no green:

carpeting the ground instead were finches,

sparrows, thrushes, their bodies

twisted, broken, with their blood,

still warm, and feathers, on your feet.