Hello Friends —
Sometime between December 31, 2010 and January 1, 2011, more than 5,000 redwing blackbirds died in mid-air and fell to the ground in the small town of Beebe, Arkansas. Widespread speculation over the birds' unknown cause of death, combined with their time of death, inspired such insightful news headlines as "Aflockalypse Now" — as well as today's poem from Nickole Brown. Brown also invokes the sounds of names, the shapes of letters, and the nearly universal Southern experience of being stuck behind a logging truck.
Cheers,
Ellen
--------------------------------------
Black bird, red wing
So this is where the last year
of the Mayan calendar begins—
5,000 birds falling on Beebe,
Arkansas, a state that could smooth
out with the sway of the plains
but instead sputters the silence
of the first syllable like a pothole
that hits before you're off the
on ramp—say it—
ar-
-can-saw—
ending with that blade
of rusted teeth to chew
through the last of what's left
of those woods, a fast-driving
diesel flatbed of felled trees
and all of us in a tight spot
between that chugging machine
and the concrete barrier
as we hope the straight back
of our consonants will
hold, even if they are quiescent
monsters, reticent prayers,
because we can't help it, we lean
towards letters that do not bend,
try our exhausted weight
on the middle of that state,
that silent K—the shape of a man
trying to hold up the ceiling,
trying not to think
of its falling
as the sky's.
Labels: NPM