Back to Issue Forty-Nine

The First Bird

BY DIDI JACKSON

 

The first bird I see in the brand-new year

is a chickadee, and according to birders

 

it is now my theme bird, industrious, curious,

no jukebox of melody but instead a 2 or 3 note

 

simple song, the dropped tones of hey sweetie

outside the window to the bedroom where we rest

 

a moment, naked, our desire rooting us to each other,

our ankles like anchors, your coined eyes

 

on my Willendorf figure, my freckles

like splashes of sweet vermouth. It is winter and the heat

 

of the room tricks us into cracking a window

to allow the smallest ribbon of sunshine to touch

 

the bed, then to move across your face

like a honeyed blessing. I know the days

 

of the calendar itch like fledglings, each at the lip

of their nest, ready for flight; and that your parents

 

told you not to wish your life away,

but how esoteric of them, the old, though now

 

we are the age they were. Lip to lip. Nose to nose.

Belly to belly. And on this cold day, I want

 

to eat you. Yes. An excoriation of your body

in the manner of the eucharist.

 

For if you become part of me, then I will know

and carry all of your suffering, and you mine.

The Bell

BY DIDI JACKSON

 

Near the end of the day

the chickadees never hesitate to scold

 

my entrance from the trail into Flanders Field.

I take their flush and feather,

 

tick them off with the last shards of sun

and the skeletal underside of a cloudless sky.

 

The mountains begin to silhouette not knowing the names

of the dead profiles they resemble. I am

 

hypnotized by the sunlight. It is dusk

that changes what I think I see

 

into what is. And when I read the word lost

I read Lota, Bishop’s partner

 

who like my own husband took her life. And there

I go, once again nailed by the starving sky and the tack-sharp pines

 

to this story despite the dying day,

despite wanting to forget the dead

 

and instead dwell on what I might offer the world,

despite turning from the recently mowed meadow

 

of milkweed and curled dock, the empty crabapple trees

and their black scowling boughs,

 

to head back down the path, book in my arms,

swallowing a scream clanging like a bell in my throat.

Didi Jackson is the author of Moon Jar (Red Hen Press, 2020) and the forthcoming collection My Infinity. Her poems have appeared in American Poetry Review, Kenyon Review, The New Yorker, Oxford American, and World Literature Today among other journals and magazines. She has had poems selected for Best American Poetry, Academy of American Poets’ Poem-a-day, The Slow Down with Tracy K. Smith, and Together in Sudden Strangeness: America’s Poets Respond to the Pandemic. She is the recipient of the Robert H. Winner Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America and was a finalist for the Meringoff Prize in Poetry. She teaches creative writing as an assistant professor at Vanderbilt University.

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