Fiery Billed Aracari
Dreams of my feet dragging through wet morning grass. Throughout a day whispers are continuous, they run down a person's arm and hop onto the leg of another. When you are the hunt you hear it all, even the whispers that don’t exist—the ones waiting in the willows for a wanderer to come. It’s a constant game we play beneath our skin, hoping no one will notice—our hopes and desires streaming in a room—creating lines that don’t exist, creating moments that won’t become.
I see my pelican, he sits and preens himself in the wind. You walk on a thin, unmarked path with random signs warning you of danger—an evil eye painted across a fallen house in the distance. When you turn back you feel safe. I walked past a man who stared at my body before my face. I realized why I struggle speaking in another language—confidence doesn’t translate. In my language I look at the man, greet him with a deep voice and short words—what’s up, I say, let my glare linger forebodingly—show him I am real, I am there, I am watching too. When I speak in Spanish I come off like a little girl—I give steroids to their bravado. Maybe this is why I come here, to feel as if I am nothing again, to welcome the chance to start over, to rebuild from places I didn’t know before.
I bought two cans of corn and salsa verde. He planted himself on the steps so my body was forced to touch his. A constant conflict. My feet drag through wet morning grass and the whispers sound like screams. No one can hear them but me.
She wore that expression people wear when they are late and know they have disappointed someone. A father and his boy row long distances together. The town is gritty, people work to be cruel. She is the youngest of four sisters and two brothers—el bebe she calls herself. She speaks in the collective—it allows me to walk into her. She says she is upsets, and when referring to her family or her people she says like we. Every now and then she uses my name—Melissa, you are like we, you have kind spirit. She had to leave, she was going to her sister's funeral, and I offered to watch the phones. The conversation started because I told her about the people I’d run into—the little girl who spit on my feet and called me estupido. She told me she never ate their food or took any kindness from them because it would bite her in the asses. She pointed at her cheeks as she said it. Melissa, this is between we, yes? I told her it was. Gracias, Melisita, Melisita simpatica. I smiled.
He would marry my sister a few months later because he needed a green card. It had nothing to do with wet morning grass but it was there too—in the vastness. Love doesn’t teach logic in moments of beauty. It throws pain back later, reminding us that responsibility is hard to find in the fog of lust. She said she came from the floor — that’s why she didn’t understand her Colombian jefe. Jefe came from soft, velvet couches and crystal glassware. Cervezas y camarones force us to create stories but most of the time they are true. They are we. When her niece was young she was a watcher—a young girl el gente gossiped about. I don’t know por que (why). When she decided to be a teacher—her parents bought furniture for the neighbors to sit on. She pointed to her backside again. They asses, she said, and laughed a deep, glorious laugh. I don’t listen to what my neighbors say, she goes on, I watch they action. When her niece came home she had enough money to buy her mother a prosthetic leg. She said they told her a prosthetic would only create wounds—wounds for we. She told me her niece had a kind heart — she is more than we she said. I told her I had a prosthetic too but it was somewhere she couldn’t see. I screwed it in when my husband died. She said she had one as well and then pointed—in we asses, she said. When she hugged me I knew I’d never see her again. But I’d hear her whispers beneath the willows and her feet dragging through wet morning grass.
Transmissions Circa 2013 with some additions in 2022
Birds-Eye-View Spotlight Writer
Michelle Whittaker — visit her website at http://michellewhittakerpoet.com
If you want more from The Birds — Check out Michelle Whittaker. Michelle is a West Indian-American poet, pianist, and university instructor whose interests include expository and creative writing pedagogy, music composition, 20th century American poetry, and eco-poetics. Michelle completed an MFA in Creative Writing and Literature at Stony Brook University-Southampton. Her poems have been published in the The New York Times Magazine, New Yorker, Upstreet, The Southampton Review, Narrative, Vinyl Poetry, Long Island Quarterly, Transitions Magazine for Hutchins Center and other publications. Her debut book, Surge, is available now from great weather for Media.
