I
have a date
with
my eagle lover —
bird-killing
bird,
rabbit
hunter,
assassin
of squirrels,
sneak
thief of cub and pup and kitten.
His
prominence
(one-
or two-headed)
on
flags and coins,
seals
and warplanes
must
have enthralled me.
And
of course he might,
just
might be Zeus in disguise.
I
cleared my calendar,
cleaned
house,
turned
balcony
into
a landing pad/eyrie.
Maybe
my kind enjoy
being
swooped down upon.
The
phone will not ring,
the
door chime
hoards
expectant silences.
Nothing
will precede him
except
an updraft
and
the sound of wingbeats.
Wingbeats,
yes. The dull
thud
of contact, then
something
rolls
into
my living room,
The
outspread wings and talons
guiding
it.
That
predator egg he brought
sits
on the couch
between
us,
and
if it hatches,
what
then of dinner and wine
and
candlelight?
Will
the eaglet choke down
my
proffered feast,
preening
his downy feathers
and
asking for more?
When
our entre nous
becomes
a raptor nursery,
shall
our tryst be forgotten?
Will
his nestling stay, too,
curled
in my laundry hamper?
Isn’t
there a Mrs.
Eagle
to
take charge here?
Dare
I tip-toe out and back
from
the bathroom
without
the admonishing screech
of
its never-abating hunger?
Will
he remain
to
hear my poems,
to
loan me his wingspan,
his
shadow, his mute
but
overarching company?
Or
is it just about him?
“Look,
I have made an egg!”
He
never said there was a she-eagle,
or
that he’s a single dad-in-waiting.
It
may not hatch at all.
What
if it’s dead?
What
if it’s only good
for
making an omelet?
I
could have chosen wolf,
or lion, sky-hawk or tiger
as my companion.
But
here we sit, the eagle,
the egg and I,
the
embarrassed silence,
the
shudder of wing-shrug,
the
raptor eye fixed on me.
There
is nothing else to do.
Slowly,
I begin to undress.
Image: Magritte, Domain of Arnheim, 1938.
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