Copyright 2001 by Robert S. Pesich
I was in the back, in the bathroom,
reading the Times on the toilet,
a small article under a yellow night-light
because the switch was blown:
"Old woman finds infant in dumpster,
revives him with songs."
It was then that I could hear
someone knocking on the neglected
window in the corner, above my face.
A small bird, dark as my eyes
returning to her chicks.
The nest wedged against the hinge
keeping the window open with its woven
mouth of mud, grass, and tangled
cassette tape holding my voice,
a few words, a brief song, made useful.
Tiny ligature of a greater voice
that brings me to the window.
Black back-alley, bricks,
dumpster and sour diesel.
The birds resting in my breath
while outside, someone shatters
a glass or a mirror
under a brief snow of blossoms
floating down from somewhere.
Not long after the war
tourists will come
to Velika Kladusa village
to see the famous chickens
that shatter wine glasses
with their screeching
as they lay their eggs,
hot as live cinders
and flecked with tiny black spots.
They are magnetic eggs,
always pointing West
where massive dark shapes rise.
Eggs that do not hold
the colors of Pascha.
Tourists buy them by the dozens.
Chicken eggs used as central heating.
Only a few complain
about the blood inside,
the fragments of human teeth.