Lisa McIvor

Seattle, Washington, USA

After the Bird was Still

After the bird was still
She cradled it in her palm,
how weightless it was.
How bright its stained feathers,
their brief fracture,
such tiny bones comprise a wing.
She had told herself it made sense
that it would leave her.
It had been her fault, after all.
She had overstepped,
taken to singing with it in the mornings, so this is what remained of her vanity.
His footsteps crossing above
tremored the floorboards,
and she looked upwards as one might gaze up towards heaven.
She had outgrown childhood long ago,
but to her mind the fairy tales
with poisoned apples and sharp spinning needles had proven true and God lived upstairs in his den of spiders.
For a time she had kept herself occupied
and reasonably obedient by counting
the freckles on his forearms, kept her eyes open and her breathing shallow.
She never made a sound.
She knew what stillness was.

                       *** * ***

She knew what stillness was.
How the firmament could be
a vast deep hand that cupped her safe
with a thousand stars, a heaven viewed
so close through the steamed car window she could almost touch it, clouds and all. Sometimes while she was working
she would reach up and trace a shape through the mist, a brevity of heart so shaky with longing and transcendence
that no one would recognize her valentine
to the mother of paradise. She believed in her sisters of the sky,
all in different shades of light.
Especially right after she had her fix,
when her skin felt warm
and soft as her daughter’s cheek
and her breath came easy
and she remembered who she was.
He was done with her now
and slumped to his side of the car,
a pale blue Buick with seats
sticky with something cloying and rank beneath the heavy scent of cigarettes.
She was dizzy sitting up and shook her long red hair to gain a moment, took a deep breath and grimaced at the damp
against the back of her skirt. Damn.
It was cold enough out as it was.
Taking the fifty dollars
she glanced into the small purse.
You got a cigarette?
Standing on the street corner she watched the last of his tail lights vanish
into small fractures of brightness.

                   **** * ***

After the bird was still
Fatima gently laid it on a nest of leaves
brittle with Autumn. It would soon be winter and the ground had hardened with frost.
She dug a small hole and laid the bird
gently on its side, one eye looking up at her or maybe heaven, inshallah.
Her hand was sticky with blood
and she wiped it
against the dark fabric of her skirt.
She had seen the cat pounce
and given chase but she was too late.
She had taken too long already,
formulating excuses for her arrival home. She wasn’t sorry though.
She had never expected Michael to like her, had been so shy to raise her eyes to his, eyes so deep and dark it was as though
she was looking into his soul,
a place of sweetness and stars.
And when he had kissed her by the lockers she felt as though she were swimming,
her feet no longer her own.
Even her heavy dress and hijab
proved no barrier, his fingertips tracing
the edges of the cloth,
teasing a few strands of hair
to frame her face.
Upon leaving she had tucked stray bits
back into place and ran
the length of the field.
Even this could be a cause
for great punishment. To be with a boy alone, to let him touch you.
It was enough to be disowned
or beaten, or both.
There were stories of worse.
Her father was a gentle man. But still.
She knew what stillness was.
When to refrain from any movement,
to be as quiet as a stone.
This is a woman’s great protection.
She had seen Mama practice it many times.
She was already engaged to a boy
back in Lebanon she had yet to meet.
This made her actions even worse.
And then she saw the cat, the bird,
its fragile wings beating the air in short, frantic bursts.
She threw pebbles and the cat fled,
but she was too late.
The bird lay in perfect stillness,
only its tiny heart beating fast,
bleeding onto her cupped palm.

                     *** * ***

It happened gradually.
First there was birdsong, the taste of cherries in my mouth, then a day I realized
I hadn’t heard the birds in days.
You haven’t been listening, he said.
Silence eased itself where music had been and I welcomed it, it was easier
than finding things to say.
Do you find me boring? He said,
his voice teasing but edged, his fingertips grasping my chin. My voice faltered, everything was too loud,
everything seemed stripped away,
even breathing was an intrusion.
His eyes wide and empty,
cold and blue and filled with stars.
I told myself this might be heaven
if I could only get warm.
It was my fault I failed to amuse him.
He loved brightness,
bought me a crimson nightgown
he tore the first time I wore it.
You used to be so witty, he said sadly, gripping my arm.
You might long for covering
but your arms have turned to ice.
I say you and mean, however, me.
I should have asked for a robe. I should have said no, I should have known
He was only wanting power
in a world of weakness.
I let him hit me. And all his words
Struck home.
I who loved words woke every morning to the gray bulk of another day and did not flee.
I forgot how to run.
I only knew what stillness was.