Veronika Hilská, Magpie 2
Melancholy Syncopation
Beth Sherman
In the beginning, we were barn swallows, making a different nest each year–under the eaves of a dilapidated house, tucked into the rock ledge of a cliff, inside a hollow tree. Using bits of straw and cast-off feathers, built to blow away. Swooping and soaring, we ducked beneath clouds, diving headfirst into meadows before mating in midair. Later, we were owls, emerging at night, our yellow eyes blinking sleepily, high on minor drugs. Hissing when people came near. We prowled for mice, feasted on their bones, picked the carcass clean. Admired our endless wingspans. The breadth and depth of our vision. We huddled together on snowy nights, heads tucked into each other’s breasts, claws gripping the same sturdy branch. Now, we are jays, preening our turquoise feathers, screeching when we have nothing to say. Nuisance birds. Jabbering in the den, nursing our gin and tonics as blues pour from the stereo. Coltrane, the Duke, B.B. King, Bessie Smith. Silky music. Melancholy syncopation. Awash in memories, we clench the silence between songs, nurture our regrets, hold them close like the children we decided not to have. We did the right thing, we tell each other. We’d make lousy parents anyway. Besides, kids grow up and leave. We’d seen it happen to our friends. Or they stay too long, living in the basement, getting fired from a string of dead-end jobs. We were the smart ones, we say, as Lady Day sings “Blue Moon” and the needle scratches vinyl and we try to remember where we bought the record back when we had the world by a string. Outside, on the deck, jays start hollering again, flashing their denim wings, plucking berries off the holly tree, dropping them one by one, a broken necklace in the snow.
Beth Sherman
In the beginning, we were barn swallows, making a different nest each year–under the eaves of a dilapidated house, tucked into the rock ledge of a cliff, inside a hollow tree. Using bits of straw and cast-off feathers, built to blow away. Swooping and soaring, we ducked beneath clouds, diving headfirst into meadows before mating in midair. Later, we were owls, emerging at night, our yellow eyes blinking sleepily, high on minor drugs. Hissing when people came near. We prowled for mice, feasted on their bones, picked the carcass clean. Admired our endless wingspans. The breadth and depth of our vision. We huddled together on snowy nights, heads tucked into each other’s breasts, claws gripping the same sturdy branch. Now, we are jays, preening our turquoise feathers, screeching when we have nothing to say. Nuisance birds. Jabbering in the den, nursing our gin and tonics as blues pour from the stereo. Coltrane, the Duke, B.B. King, Bessie Smith. Silky music. Melancholy syncopation. Awash in memories, we clench the silence between songs, nurture our regrets, hold them close like the children we decided not to have. We did the right thing, we tell each other. We’d make lousy parents anyway. Besides, kids grow up and leave. We’d seen it happen to our friends. Or they stay too long, living in the basement, getting fired from a string of dead-end jobs. We were the smart ones, we say, as Lady Day sings “Blue Moon” and the needle scratches vinyl and we try to remember where we bought the record back when we had the world by a string. Outside, on the deck, jays start hollering again, flashing their denim wings, plucking berries off the holly tree, dropping them one by one, a broken necklace in the snow.