by Farnaz Fatemi
He had salted the wings of the red-tailed hawk
to see what would become of them. Had stumbled on the bird
where it died. Where he was exploring a new trail.
He knows death. He was no taxidermist.
But he wondered what a crate of salt could do
to keep what he had found. The bird
in his palms took him back to the year
he learned how to look at field marks.
How to find the head of the bird in binoculars
and break it into quadrants with his eyes, extract
the top of the bill from the bottom and let them
stay that way: one sooty, one golden. Hone in
on the cere, the flesh that holds the nostrils.
He remembers, now, the boy who didn’t
know the word cere. Didn’t even know
there was a part on the head of the bird
that needed a word like that one. The rush
he felt, that other parts might need names,
all that might be learned. He draws out the wing
base to tip and dips it in the salt
then scoops the thick crystals with his palms
to cover what he can. Every time he thinks of death
—train full of boulders on its track—he wonders
whether there are parts he will recognize.
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