The Raven in the Window
Perched on the second branch up and to the left where nubs cluster in groups of five or six to create patches of rough-edged buds that will flower the next month; they are perfect for her talons to latch onto. She hugs the stiff, smoothed-out appendage of nature, grateful for the built-in accommodation. Her small, misshapen head cocks to the left, following the branch she now calls home, and twitches in tandem with the late clock on the wall. With every tick, the feathers on her neck push against each other, making her upper body look puffed out and plump; a plumpness that would entice the starved snake or vicious vulture, romancing them into a cheap, deceiving meal. She is far too high to be reached by most hungry hunters and far too anxious to be considered by a soaring neighbor. I worry that she will never discover ease, never ceasing to twitch, orchestrated by that damn clock. The crazed movement in her neck now moves to her round stomach, but her wings remain static: two stone sculptures not daring to disobey their artisans and render their ancientness to cracks and creases of time. This movement almost makes her look cold, shivering in alienation, but I’ve never heard of a chill killing a raven. Her black body contrasts the white porcelain air, making her spasms all the more apparent, and it’s thanks to this stark coloration that I can see the disease making its way down to her skinny legs and pointed feet. Her claws, that once gripped the wintered blossom with such conviction and certainty, begin to turn weak and fragile, helplessly stretching each of them out, trying to latch onto whatever strength she could muster up. Her shivers disrupt her balance, shedding control like rushing water in a deforested creek. She steps to the side to regain her former state, but it is without grace. With the maneuver, she loses her perfect pedestal and is now squeezed between two branches that reach opposite directions, creating a V-like shape. The rigid, thinner branches scratch her sides, making loose feathers fall to the forest floor, where a thin layer of first snow and dried leaves of early winter greet them. She mourns her fallen feathers with a helpless squawk, which, of course, I cannot hear, but the twitches intensify, and I can only imagine what death cry must have escaped her. She tries to escape this prison, but her thrashing further closes her cage and pushes her upwards until her trembling little legs are dangling, only the two branches suspending her.
I beg her to use her wings, but through the spasms and desperate attempts to break free, they remain idle, forever frozen in their statue demeanor. I can see the answer to her problem, and I wish they would burn her sides, leaving an upward trail of smelly smoke that would make my eyes water, opening and shutting them to try to find relief but ultimately making the tears come quicker. I wish the smoke would manifest into fire, terrifying the tree, forcing branches to catch uncontrollable flames so they may melt off like ice cream in the sticky hands of a naive toddler. I wish all of these sinful, horrifying scenarios so that she would slap herself silly for not using her bird-related advantage. But like a cockroach on its back, she continues to flail her body up and down, moving higher up rather than down. Although it is more challenging, her plan could work as the two branches begin to separate as they reach higher. She is almost at a point where the two branches are wide enough to grab onto another cluster of nubs and return to her previous twitching peace. She can taste her freedom, and I can as well, watching her conquer her incarceration from the stained, fogged-up window. But alas this bird cannot find good fortune, and her back gets snagged on an individual nub, preventing her from moving up any further. At her realization, the twitches grow more violent and visible until the branches are hiccuping with her. She abandons her previous technique and starts recklessly swinging herself from left to right, trying to get uncaught so she may finally leave the horrid tree. Then a crack hushes the forest, and a quietness falls in here, too, every ounce of my attention focused on the loud silence. The right branch, now broken into two, falls to that very forest floor, beating the bird by seconds. The thud that her body makes is the real silencer, a conductor of all natural activity. All of her helpless swinging has gone to waste, energy that could have been saved and given to the following form of life. It returns to the soil that has given so much, rifling through microorganisms and performing life-changing tasks on which the apex predator depends. It spreads through tangled roots, passing intricate fungal networks and wrapping around the earthworm onto its next user.
The twitching has stopped, but the clock keeps going, counting the seconds until I have to return the wrinkled piece of paper so it may be evaluated. The blankness scares me, and the pencil shooting its look at me remains unmoving in unstable, sweaty hands. The wooden floor seems further now than before, but my chair is relatively low to the ground, and being less than average height certainly does not add much to the distance. I tap my foot to the ticks; my inner body and mind are cycling through, but my hand keeps the rhythm of passing seconds. I have the answer to the problem, but my pencil remains idle in my hand, not changing course or plans, just dreaming of cool surfaces against weak eyelids and stupid flushed cheeks. Then all is still; an unmoving silence I can feel gently caressing bare skin, exposed to rug burn and blemishes. I have only my memory to tell me where I am, just in respect to the stained glass window that hangs above limp limbs.
Finding a Place
Tall castle-like walls
Casting make-believe shadows
A toddler’s phantasm
That innocence of childhood
So secure, so shielded
One would want to crawl back
To the safety of his mother’s
Warm wet womb
When Thomas Buckley first arrived at his boarding school, his home away from home, as his parents would call it, he didn’t care for moss or cobblestone. How the walls looked as if they were built merely days ago, but their problematic history suggests otherwise. Or how the setting sun hit the artificial green lawn at five o'clock in the evening because winter days were long in Massachusetts. Cool westerly winds brushed his cheeks, but they were forceful enough to swish his knitted scarf against his tweed jacketed shoulder; he appreciated nature's kindness that day. Though it didn’t compensate for the uninspiring setting, and he hated that most of all. The chunky ink black camera in hand couldn’t be put to use here. Photography kept him stable during dreary days, capturing a place that felt like his own, and after reviewing his works he would imagine himself diving into the lens and re-experiencing them in a forever picturesque land.
He didn’t want his mother and father to leave him in a place that couldn’t feel like his own, though generations and names on dining halls would disagree with him. He was afraid of rigid expectations, being put into the Buckley box, another child prodigy, future neurosurgeon, or selfless yet successful activist. He didn’t want his mother and father to leave him, but he ushered them out with an urgency due to his embarrassment and resentment, making sure they would notice the absence of a kiss and hug farewell.
Oh now you smile,
Smile with paste and clay
So I may see
Glimmers of daffodil light
Splinters of hope at dawn
To which the optimistic student yells
‘Carpe diem’
Moments like these should be cherished forever
During his first week, Thomas had made a mental list of things he hated at his prison school. He hated classes, which would be a given for any adolescent entering a highly ranked boarding school, but Thomas was never one to heavily dread one or procrastinate on an assignment. He hated the warm and damp smell of the classrooms, how the floors are covered in a woolen padded material, making them seem itchy. He hated the chalkboards, how remains of chalk would sneak under his fingernails and in the crevices of his hands which would send a cringed shiver down his back. He hated the teaching style; it felt like his teachers were his caretakers and that the students were misbehaving six year olds, needing every explanation in excruciating detail, afraid to let go of the caregivers hand.
His old school would leave students to problem solve, challenging them to figure out concepts by themselves with what little instructions they were given. The seventy-five thousand dollars could be used for more precious things in life than this half-ass education. He could capture this hatred with a quick flash, but afraid the result would infuriate him too much, he kept his lonely camera in his dorm. The only thing he loved about this place were the nights, where he could look at his old photos, shut his eyes, and set the scene for his all-too-short dreams.
Itching to find a nook
To which your back
Can small and shrivel
A warmth of your own
Hot air and loose thoughts
It is the only oxygen you need
So when cool walls try
To freeze wild escapades
Of the mind
The body can be at peace
Forever stagnant
Often leaving the dining hall ten minutes after arriving, Thomas stayed for an extra while to observe noises. Clatters of plastic trays mixed with the superficial chatter of their student counterparts. He cringed at the sound and sight of ill-mannered kids talking with their greedy mouths full, assuring himself that all the money in the world cannot buy decency. He closed his eyes, focusing on the cacophony of sounds, blending harmoniously together. A particular sound broke his meditation. One of the footsteps slowly approached him, which was odd because he mostly kept to himself, interacting with others when absolutely needed. These steps were not one of a teacher’s, lacking the authority and pompousness of an egotistical educator. He opened his eyes to find Will Taylor, his roommate for the year. As far as random roommates go, Will was not the worst pick. He was considerate and respectful, being extra quiet in the mornings when he had to get up at five thirty for rowing practice or making his gaggle of friends leave the room when Thomas wanted to do his homework. Earlier this morning however, Will was less considerate. He accidentally bumped into the desk, and Thomas' camera fell to the floor. Nothing was broken or damaged, but his loud alarmed reaction to the innocent incident suggested that had it got damaged, Will wouldn’t be known as the tolerated roommate anymore.
Standing over him, Will offered yet another sincere apology, and to make up for his mistake, he handed the camera to Thomas and told him to check out his ‘study spot’. Reluctantly, Thomas accepted his offer, thanking him subtly for his sympathy. Will instructed him to take the fire escape up until he reached the top floor with the splotchy blue painted door. Though weirded out by the instructions, Thomas entertained the idea, climbing the stairs and opening the door. Expecting to see the science labs, the door led to a small balcony, with a stone floor, bunches of bushes that hung over the edge, and a wooden rocking chair. Thomas sat in the chair as if it was the most natural thing in the world, rocking back and forth with little force. Camera in hand, he held it up to his face, and watched through the lens.
You have found your place
Where you can hear harmonies
From the fire ant scaling the White ash
To the quiet winds shake thin branches
Disturbing the stillness
Of the hummingbird’s labors
Or rolling acorns that escaped
The squirrels starved grasp
Hatred is the uncertainty in me
Who tries to mute this sound
You need a place
Where smiles are common
Not a commodity
Find a place to be this sound
Don’t just dream it indoors
The Subway
Swiping soundlessly calls for my shadow to double, rocking on creased sneakers in front of white knuckles gripping the camera lens, checking minutes by the second are mimicked by hawk eyes, the screaming wind of my train car whips his face as well, stepping onto the sticky cart calls for my shadow to follow off the platform’s edge, swaying to the shaky ride next to his static legs, stepping on a new platform makes him raise his full fleshed arm, walking up abandoned cigarette stairs above the wandering camera, pulling burning skirts after silver-coated handcuffs.