Susan Wheeler

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The Bird Denizens of Scarlet Town


“What a disappointment that bird was.”—
King Hawk on his perch is plucking the fuzz.
The crows and the finches duck down because
a hawk’s measure is all a hawk knows.

Vireo’s a triller, its cry doesn’t screech;
a sparrow in fury just sounds like E.T.
A jay only mimics a red-shoulder’s spree;
once you thought my talons would grow.

Chickadees and warblers flock where they go,
a heron stalks, a pheasant crows;
flycatchers dive on cicadas not moles—
a hawk’s measure is all a hawk knows.

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Go out to the meadow


Go out to the meadow
            and find your dear
Darling, and when you do
            tell her your tale,
Forgetting no part you
            may have sundered,
Forgetting no thing you
            did to lie low.

One night dark as tar when
            you were a child
You saw a small bird at
            your windowsill;
It held in its beak the
            smallest blue chip
Of cerulean tile—
            and while, awake
Now, you watched as the bird
            turned in the light
You held at the window
            the better to
See, it pressed with its beak
            the tile fast to
The pane where the lamp lit
            it blue—and as
The house slipped beneath you,    
            a ship’s drift in
Deep night, you—dull, clean, bathed
            like a prince—you
Peered from the dark. Saw blue.

*                                 *                                 *

Was it what others said:
            just a drugged dream?
You knew it was not, and
            you remember
The tracing becoming,
            on the tile’s face,
Features and outline, thorn-
            ringed and bearded,
A man’s face that sounded
            the voice of a
Child. It spoke to you: Do
            not turn away.

*                                 *                                 *

Though sleep seeped through the house
            you were awake.
Your cowboy pajamas
            pinched your small bob,
You felt the turned wood in
            your hand, the heat
Of the bulb through its shade,
            you saw Texas
Fall out beyond you, dark and
            vast as the sea.

When you return from the
            green meadow, and
Turn from your dear to the
            face in the blue,
Think on the ghosts who were sent
            for our straying,
Who were sent to induce
            our turning, too.

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Nineteen Ninety-Two


We learned to read the belted pants, bunched in the back.
We learned your blood type, your cell counts, your drugs.
The bugle woman, out early on Grove, played reveille.
We saw the arm leaning on the other.
We lay in a circle with the infirm.
You were not allowed to visit.
We hugged you hard, and it hurt you.
At the church dinner you sang with him showtunes.
We found your father pre-grieving at your bedside.
There were children on your block dressed for Easter.
Christopher Street meant the pharmacy.
We loved you, and we sat with your mother.
We saw the wounds.
Others filed into the wedding play, seeing nothing.
Seventh Avenue was an infinite moat.
We spoon fed you ice chips in the room at St. Vincent’s.
You rallied, then you didn’t.
You would not inherit the lease.
The smallest pigeon, in the grave night air, pecked at the sidewalk and pranced.

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