Tag: Universe

To Be a Bird

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 

Reassurance is hard to come by these day, but immediate dense caloric intake helps me cope with the onslaught of morning news. Not long ago, breakfast included a half bottle of dark beer, but it isn’t worth the hassle anymore. The untouched supply of porter in the pantry speaks to the acute nature of the troubles. A swig or two of leftover wine is about all I can handle.

So tell me, kind companion, how is it with you in the morning?

I’m trying to accept my fate, but I cannot wait to be a bird. I’d like to be a magpie, but a crow or raven would be fine. Sparrow. Starling. Even an Arctic Tern. I just need wings and an internal map that reveals the direction of each season. Also, if I fall from the nest, the Big Hand will be there to scoop me back up.

Some may assume I’m referring to the hand of their God, but I’m not. The merest touch of those exclusive Gods leaves a dangerous odor that risks rejection from the protective flock. Like anyone who makes meaning from ancient texts, I twist scripture, hoping to curry favor with the Source and thus ensure an orderly eternity.

Tell me, beloved, how is it you curry such favor?

The Good Graces have gone missing. There are grave implications for a universe careening out of control. Harsh, lonely, and forever. No maestro. No emcee. Therefore, I’m learning to speak the languages of stone and helpless infants. Of microbes in the soil. Of fatted calves, long thin beans, and garlic.

Tell me, friend, what languages are you working on?

In my native tongue, I ask repeatedly about the saving of us all, but things remain inconclusive. We’re not easily preserved. We’re shaped like eggs with shells that break from within and without.

We drape ourselves in colorful flags to signal unity: Queer, straight, soldier, snake. The Jolly Roger, Old Glory, and the Union Jack. Loyalties rigidify. Edges fray.

Tell me, cherished one, is belonging worth the cost?

Today I will partake as I’m able and drape myself in whatever comes. It may be the blessing of purple linen or the banality of polyester. Most likely, it will be the wrong size. I’ll roll up the sleeves, pin the waist, and tighten the buckles. Or rip a seam to ease the pressure of something too small.

Someday, I’ll need nothing but feathers. With bones hollowed and wings unfurled, I’ll rise up, gracefully negotiating the downdrafts. This is what I’m awaiting.

So tell me, my dearest, what is it you’re awaiting? And what is it you believe?

Saving the Snide-Faced Prayer Warriors

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

I usually set aside part of the morning for what’s left of my Coauthor. She volunteered to be broken, so now she’s notes for the song and bones for the dogs, nowhere and everywhere. She shares table scraps and meager shelter with the forgotten. I’m afraid she wants me to do the same.

“Would you be willing to make a deal?” I ask.

“Maybe,” she says, wary. Some of her teeth are missing.

“Could I hide in your VRBO? I cannot be around this hatefulness anymore.”

“No. Sorry. I’d stay there myself, except that it’s always reserved for the aliens.”

“But it’s a mansion. Isn’t there a closet or something you could prepare for me? Maybe we could share it.”

“That’s not how it works.”

I search the fridge for my morning beer while she expands to the outer edges of reality. Inhaling the gases that ignite the Big Bangs restores her strength and vision.

“This is sacred time,” I tell her. “I don’t like it when you’re late or not fully present.”

“Same,” she says. “And I don’t like it when you judge me for being splintered. I’m a Delicate Illusion. That should be enough for someone like you.”

There’s no beer, but I find an open bottle of wine and take a generous swig to wash down the stale bread.

A loud tapping sound startles me.

She grins. “Behold, someone knocketh at the door.”

I shake my head and hide the wine. I’m not ashamed. Just cautious. Hopefully, whoever it is will go away.

But no, that damn bouquet of Delicate Illusions yells, “Come in!” The door swings open, and all the Entwined Beloveds, from pervasive molds to emus, surge forward.

 “We’re so happy to see you,” the Illusions smile. “The fire’s lit. The kettle’s on.”

I fall back. My inner self is being trampled by things seen and unseen.

Thousands of well-armed Snide-Faced Prayer Warriors elbow their way to the center of time and space, making a show of dropping to their phony knees.

How can there be so many? I think to myself, This is it. The death of love.

But a whole host of Delicate Illusions surround the Snide-Faced Warriors and disarm them. The Warriors writhe in agony, their tender underbellies fully exposed. I cheer vengefully.

But the Delicate Illusions roll up their sleeves and begin donating blood. “Bring something to cover their shame,” the Illusions yell, knee-deep in the agony of terrible mistakes.

At first, I refuse. Then I consider my options.

“You’re killing me,” I shout, tossing blankets from my own bed.  

“Nice,” they nod in approval. “Eiderdown.”