by Paula J. Lambert

Though pelts had long been traded across Asia, wings and feet removed, Europeans first encountering Birds-of-Paradise believed the birds must have simply floated on air until, like exhausted angels, they fell to earth.

You did not fall, dear heart. We reached for you and,
so surprised our human hands made contact,
pulled you down to what could only be your hell.

Bless us, oh beautiful bird, wingless, footless,
still carrying the scent of cinnamon, cloves, and greed,
for we have surely sinned, so many times

and in so many gruesome ways. We failed to see you,
holy relic, as witness to our own hubris, our inability
to understand that reaching was its own gift.

Oh, beautiful bird, we see you now and bow to you,
ask you to believe we of featherless form can do better,
can be better—truly and without irony—

than what our fathers taught us. We reach now only
for your forgiveness, understanding our penance at last
and firmly resolving, with the help of your grace,

to amend our lives and to see your lovely, still-living 
progeny for what they are: testament to what we might
be instead of what we might own. 

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Paula J. Lambert has published several collections of poetry, including The Ghost of Every Feathered Thing (FutureCycle 2022) and How to See the World (Bottom Dog 2020). Awarded PEN America's L'Engle-Rahman Prize for Mentorship, Lambert's poetry and prose has been supported by the Ohio Arts Council, Greater Columbus Arts Council, and Virginia Center for Creative Arts. Her work has been nominated for several Pushcart and Best of the Net prizes. She lives in Columbus, Ohio.

by Paula J. Lambert

In Texas, fish pelted the pavement,
less stunned than the men who’d found them
in the parking lot. They’d come a long way,
the fish. It was a hell of a ride, lifted from the sea
by a force no fish brain could possibly have fathomed,
slapped down dead at the used car dealership
on Summerhill Road. The men who gathered,
trying to figure out what in the name of sweet baby Jesus
could have happened, were at a disadvantage,
never having been lifted themselves, knowing plenty
about plagues of frogs and locusts but next to nothing
about fishes come without loaves. They’d heard
that crack of thunder, five days past Christmas,
two days before the new year. Fish were dropping
here and everywhere, they’d told the reporter,
not knowing what to say except what was obvious,
broken fish bodies starting to stink up their shoes.
The smell stayed with them all day, and now,
after saying prayers and shivering in the cold
that came with the storm, they stared at the ceiling
wishing there’d been a way to close those damn
fish eyes staring like they’d seen the face of God.
And they guessed the fish had. And they guessed
that was blasphemy. And they guessed the fish
had gotten what they deserved. So they closed
their own eyes and curled up closer to their wives,
women who’d been staring at the ceiling for weeks,
who were pretty sure they knew what those fish
had been through, pretty sure they hadn’t seen God.

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Paula J. Lambert of Columbus, Ohio, has authored several collections of poetry including The Ghost of Every Feathered Thing (FutureCycle 2022) and How to See the World (Bottom Dog 2020). Awarded PEN America's L'Engle-Rahman Prize for Mentorship, Lambert's work has been supported by the Ohio Arts Council and the Greater Columbus Arts Council. She has twice been in residence at the Virginia Center for Creative Arts.