In absence of a bird feeder

by Aaron Rachel Selby

 

There’s a cardinal in the grass.

I forgot red and green look like this.

I call my grandfather, who has not

forgotten my name or the birds or 

the hour of my birth. The things I try

keep not working. And what do you call

that? Failure or bad luck or 

just not working hard enough –

in any case it should count for more

that I’m pretty. It should count for more

that I love the cardinal, and you. 

Would you like a list of your mistakes?

The family who bought my grandfather’s

house ripped out the trees and the garden

for the planting of grass. It makes the birds

stark. I miss when black squirrels and Ontario

brought out missing in me, so I will recommit

myself to colors and the childlike wonder 

about the world that my textbook recommends 

but fails to describe. The colors:

red, pink, green, orange. The neighbors 

had a pool, a daughter, a little silk dog.

Sometimes I’m still afraid of water.

I float on my back for so long

I look down and find everything blue. 

Would you tell me about my body? 

The hole in the fence, the failure 

to hold together or hold out. 

I forgot what you promised me, 

that it would always feel like this.