From Nerve Cowboy #11 Spring 2001


WATCHING MY FATHER FEED THE BIRDS
Lori Jakiela

He would not talk about death,
never let the word rise or curl
like a feather on his breath.
He took vitamins,
twirled apricot pits on his tongue,
enjoyed this taste of cyanide.
Even pulled most of his own teeth
until he couldn't stop the bleeding,
was proud

of this, left his dentures
on the table, grinning under a napkin
while he ate. He kept plastic jugs
swollen with pennies under his bed.
In the basement, shelves buckled under
cans of peas and creamed corn.

He held baby pictures in his wallet,
wrapped the cracked leather
with rubber bands.
On my last birthday, he gave me
a copy of his will, said I was old enough
to understand such things, said if

He picked at the black mole that spread
across his back until he bled, grew thinner,
hid in the basement, sat on the stairs
in the dark smoking Pall Malls, listening
to a pocket radio. Sometimes he sang
in Polish as he did when his father was alive
and together they'd break
the Christmas wafer, hold it on their tongues
until it caught and held like skin.

He would not talk about death, tore loaves
of fresh bread to feed sparrows and robins.
He chased crows, flailing his arms,
a small, just god. He stood
in the center of the yard,
tossed crumbs, and the birds
fell around him like a curtain.

They wait for me, he'd say.
Know I'm coming.
They'd sit in the trees
and sing and sing and sing.



BACK to Nerve Cowboy home page.