Things With Feathers

Birds, sure, but also.

Photo by Javardh on Unsplash

I am agnostic/curious when it comes to angels and how they travel. I definitely believe in birds, though. Also in messengers, and in metaphors.

---

WINGS


Two birds are fluttering around in my head
and will not fly away – 

one the pigeon who showed up in my bathroom
the other day, astonishing us both as he perched 

on the shower curtain rod, shifting from one foot 
to the other, uneasy as a first-time guest at a spa;

one the young mourning dove, jumped or fallen
from the nest in the church porch-roof, feathered

but unschooled to fly or forage, scruffy adolescent
slouched mute, unmoving, in plain sight on the steps.  

What does it mean, let Nature take its course?  
Stepping softly across the bathroom (“We need 

a Saint Francis moment here,” is what I said aloud,
which to the bird of course meant nothing at all),

leaning under the rod, easing back the shower curtain
 to nudge the window further open – that was 

within bounds; the pigeon, unperturbed, shrugged
its shoulders and flew outside, both our astonished lives

and the balance of nature, whatever that may be, undamaged.
The young dove, though – urging it softly on (“Time to grow up, 

junior,” is what I said aloud, which to the bird of course 
was sound without communication), clapping my hands

the once I saw it flap its wings, those useless things
I did, but could not convince myself – and no one, 

no human, thought I should – to bring it food
or water, pick it up somehow and lift it

back into the nest.  No, I left it on the church steps
in a huddle of young feathers, its black wild eyes

focused elsewhere, unreproachful, aware of me
only as mass and movement, not as message,

not as failed salvation. Is this, I wonder now, how angels feel
if there are angels, watching us shift our feet and slouch,
 
bewildered, in the places where we land ourselves? 
Could an angel, this minute, be muttering words

I cannot recognize, leaning on tiptoe to open
(as I put pen to paper at last) a window in my head

to let these birds out?  Clapping its wings 
in uncertain hope each time it sees any flex

of untrusted muscles, any erratic reach
for the terror and power of flight?

---

THE OTHER ANGEL


Her great kindred, the shining ones, appear in this world
at moments of crisis, of kairos, of catastrophe,
appear to some poor soul just muddling along
the edges of God’s plan, and open with: “Don’t be afraid.”

The first thing they say always, the shining great ones:
“Don’t be afraid.” This other angel, though,
their tender little sister, knows better than to lead
with that command. She knows that ship has sailed.

She knows a visit from God’s messenger holds no more terror,
for those she greets, than any chance encounter; she knows 
when fear runs like a serum in your veins, “Don’t be afraid”
sounds like a summons to a blood-soaked altar.

What can she say to those who can’t tell where the world’s
affliction ends, and they begin? Who feel their trembling
and urge to hide, their very safety, as insult and betrayal
to those whose lives are mangled by catastrophe?

She says, Look around, touch three familiar things.
She says, Drink some water, maybe eat a piece of fruit.
She says, Time for fresh air, and if walking out the door
is too much for today, crack open a window.

She says, Here is the task to which God calls you:
stay in your own skin. Be the one you are,
let God be All, tend all. You tend your one small life,
make living it your act of faith, your prayer.

She says, Let God be All, tend all. Meanwhile, believe
that there is room, need even, between crisis and catastrophe,
for you to have a meal, a wash, a glimpse of someone’s cat
across the street, stretched sleeping in a window.

---

[You can hear an audio version of the poems using the little widget above the photograph.]

“Wings” was written a dozen years ago, after … well, after I encountered two birds and couldn’t get them out of my head. It’s a fairly straightforward report of events and feelings, taking a hard slide into angelology and metaphor there at the end.

I wrote “The Other Angel” earlier this year, as an attempt to celebrate the calm, bracing voice I sometimes hear speaking quietly through the incessant anxious babble of my catastrophizing brain. I call that voice the Non-Catastrophic Angel — which would be a strange mouthful of title for a poem, so I simplified it. Then the word “other” led me to think about how this “angel’s” presence and message is different from the ways its counterparts have traditionally been reported.

Re-reading the poems now, together, it strikes me that they’re grappling with the same question: Is what I can do ever Enough? And they both arrive at the same answer: Sometimes but hardly ever, and maybe it’s not your job anyway to always be Enough. Maybe it’s your job to keep your heart open while you live your one small life. Some days I think that’s a cop-out; other days it seems like wisdom. Most days it’s about as much as a poet can manage to do.