Remember Your Lines

Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye.
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing.
Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king?

The king was in the Whitehouse counting out his money.
The queens, in Mar-a-Lago, eating bread and honey.

The maid worked for the government hanging out fake clothes,
But down came a blackbird and pecked off her nose.

There was DEI commotion, but Little Jenny Wren
Flew down into the garden and put it back again.

Outside my window, four and twenty blackbirds form an undulating carpet of wings. From them, I take hope. From me, they take grain. We do not begrudge each other these small takings. Is that enough?

“That’s a fair exchange,” the Unimagined whispers. “It is enough.”

As far as I can tell, I’ve lived in this one body my entire life. I’ve not thrown it on a grenade, but if needed, I think I would. I’ve not run it into burning buildings to save those unconscious from smoke inhalation, but if needed, I think I would. But would I?

These are my fantasies and aspirations. When I grow extra beans or beets, I share. Once, I was walking with a friend in the city late at night, and a mugger knocked her down. I chased him, but he got away. How are we to know if we are bit players or heroes?

“It’s your story,” the Writer says. “Remember your lines.”

My heart breaks for the runner who stumbles or the farmer whose tractor runs out of fuel while plowing the muddy field. The glancing back. The long walk home. The crowd dispersing. The rich preparing to eat themselves alive, knives sharpened, bones strewn everywhere. “Wait!” I shout, aware that I, myself, have stumbled and looked back. “Are those my bones?”

The Living Companion laughs. “Those are the ancestor’s bones. You still have flesh.”

I still have flesh. I still have carrots and dried kale. Oh, Force of Life, give me the audacity of blackbirds singing from the center of the pie. The king cannot partake of singing birds. And may I borrow the tenacity of little Jenny Wren, putting the faces together again?

The Bane of My Existence chucks me on the chin. “Sure, but keep in mind, some things broken cannot be fixed. And don’t sing alone if you can help it, honey. The harmonies will help you remember your lines.”

Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.