The pigeons here purr. They don't coo--coo like an infant coos, or
cries, before it learns its words, or its way in the world--a string
of whys and whos: the inquisitive mind, so often confused--which
is what I was, by the birds' odd sounds--sorrowful, echoing off
the rocks behind my room. But actually, it makes sense, considering
how close they roost to that woman's house--the great artist's muse,
the weeping woman, her portraits rendered so vividly by the one who
loved and abused her. The other morning, I came home and found
a bird trapped in the house--a window left open. Not only are the
pigeons'
sounds different here, their color is too: they are black, which gives
them
the look of cormorants, except without the hook-like neck; or crows,
except without the thirst for meat. The panicked black bird slammed
itself against the windows, and more desperately once it sensed I was
nearby. I couldn't help thinking of that woman, driven mad in the house
he'd bought for her to suffer in--she came to mind as the hollow bones
clattered against the glass, and again, when I caught it--the bird
tightened
between my palms, making the shape of a bullet, and fell silent: no
purr,
no cry, no coo. I threw it into the air where it broke into a staggered
flight
and landed on a rocky shelf, peering down at me with its beet-red eyes,
wet-looking and defiant; daring me to steal its plight for my art.
This poem originally ran in the November 27, 2006 issue of the magazine.