Sturnus Vulgaris

Sturnus Vulgaris

dear almost friends what happened

to you after that

                                W. S. Merwin

                               

He used to shoot

the starlings that nested

in the rotted lower rib

of the north-facing corner

of the house.  Was it north?

Yes, it was north because

we lived on the south

road and going up meant

leaving and going down

meant coming back. 

It was spring and mornings

I was sent to my room

for I don’t know why

I’d bury myself

under the green/brown scratch

of the army surplus

blanket and listen, my ear

against the peeling place

in the plaster.  The newly

hatched would cheer and cheep

and I liked the way

they could howl against

the dark, wait for food

in it, how the ground

was far away and they

weren’t afraid.

It might be a Saturday, we’d be

home from school,

when we’d find the clean dry

blue cap of her shell.  She’d poke

her yellow needle beak between

the crumble and whistle, fly off,

her small shred

of laundry in my palm.

He’d always told me

it was a robin’s egg.  And I’d believed

until now

it was a robin’s egg.  He never shot

robins.  Just starlings.  He called them

destructive.  Pains in the ass.

But I liked their brief music under

the rafter, inside that crumbling

rib.  He’d laugh and reload
(I'd hear him through the wall)

and say Jesus when she flew out

at him and shoot again, not knowing

my  ear was in the corner

just inches from the nest

where at night

most nights, most seasons

the rats would run up and down

between the partician.

I’d hear them gnaw and scratch

and scurry and think of the birds.
Their brief wind.  Their remarkable
blue entry, and the cracked
dome of it white as a ceiling
pealing, crumbling in my fist.