Words

Roxanne M. Carter

Sylvia

walking home i found a baby brown creeper crash landed on the sidewalk. it’s feathers weren’t quite fine and it’s leg bent under oddly, as if it were attempting to imitate a flamingo. a hopeless masquerade. i felt my teeth ache and i made my scarf into a nest and placed the bird preciously in the center of it. the trees along the road still bore the mark of winter: dark etchings on the pale dusking sky. i hurried home with my dear companion, cradling it, rock-a-bye baby. i think the time may have changed in those moments. at home you took the bird from me and settled it in a fleece lined cardboard box near the radiator. you went back to your study; i put on the tea, washed my hands with dish soap in the sink. the shadows in the kitchen leaned over me. i slipped my rings off and lay them on the windowsill. i looked out into the yard: the neighbor’s granddaughter was digging a round hole with a spade, big enough to drop a basketball in. in bed i curled onto my side and began to read; the bird’s shrill, plaintive cry interrupted me. my book closed over the sheets. i opened the box lid to peer down at it, huddled in one corner. it’s fierce determination seemed to mock me. it prevailed and i assisted, coddling it in the familial heat of the house. you came in with your hair awry, irritated with the bird’s piercing song. i couldn’t suffer it anymore either and so we went out into the evening; i put my hand into the pocket of your coat. in my own pocket i had placed a pair of keen-edged scissors. we went down to the park across from the cemetery - in the flowerbeds the crocus were blooming, forecasting spring. i bent down in the grass, damping my skirt, and snipped a single flower to tuck into your buttonhole. it’s great yellow head nodded eloquently from your lapel. in time for my daffodils, thank god, i said. we walked into the sandpit and sat on adjacent swings, kicking dirt up with our heels. a group of girls in identical dresses passed, carrying stalks of flowers wrapped in brown paper. the sight of such bold impudence struck something in me like violence. i turned my head back and watched them pass, sneering so that my lips cracked.

even before we entered the house i could hear the bird’s thin wailing warble erupting from the cardboard box. from the bottom of the box the bird gazed out with eyes of obsidian. it didn’t want to give up. you detached the hose from the sink and fixed it over the gas line in the stove with a bit of duct tape. the hose slithered down into the box and you sealed the top with a single gesture, smoothing your hand across it. i could hear the hiss, the bird’s final note of endurance. when it was over i took the bird out and held it in my hand. it was unblemished, so neatly pretty, it’s feathers glossy as silk.