The Bird Men
after Leonora Carrington's “The Bird Men of Burnley”
I hold them responsible for sea creatures I find limping
on fine sand, for rare birds called extinct then caged
where people pay to hear their song, most defined
by an eye ring and scattered trills when off-duty,
a constant stare of fright towards their monster keepers.
Bird men toil, keep us innocent
while their black fluted robes, their hands,
instruments of the devil, turn to birds. Their magic
stems far back, learned from under lords
in an ancient civilization. They caused the Black Plague,
two pandemics, wars, though they're not responsible
for deceit, for wives beheaded. Can't be blamed
for the practice of quarter-drawing a man convicted
of worshipping the wrong god. The bird men placed a glove order
from Shakespeare's father, fine grain goat skin,
perfect fit for an incantation to lure beaks
onto their beak-hands, confusable with a snake's slender
jowls. I'm afraid of their arrival in town, long narrow snouts
fitted into front door keyholes, scouring birth records
to read the scrawled cursive line saying I grew
from a sparrow into human form,
and with their stethoscope ears can hear a fast heartbeat
macraméd. There are gods we don't name, images
emblazoned on shells and tree trunks
we can't explain. I'm afraid I'll end up knotted
and half-hitched because of my complaints
of being human, yet would cut their beaks off
rather than suffer a spell which would turn me back.
I hold them responsible for sea creatures I find limping
on fine sand, for rare birds called extinct then caged
where people pay to hear their song, most defined
by an eye ring and scattered trills when off-duty,
a constant stare of fright towards their monster keepers.
Bird men toil, keep us innocent
while their black fluted robes, their hands,
instruments of the devil, turn to birds. Their magic
stems far back, learned from under lords
in an ancient civilization. They caused the Black Plague,
two pandemics, wars, though they're not responsible
for deceit, for wives beheaded. Can't be blamed
for the practice of quarter-drawing a man convicted
of worshipping the wrong god. The bird men placed a glove order
from Shakespeare's father, fine grain goat skin,
perfect fit for an incantation to lure beaks
onto their beak-hands, confusable with a snake's slender
jowls. I'm afraid of their arrival in town, long narrow snouts
fitted into front door keyholes, scouring birth records
to read the scrawled cursive line saying I grew
from a sparrow into human form,
and with their stethoscope ears can hear a fast heartbeat
macraméd. There are gods we don't name, images
emblazoned on shells and tree trunks
we can't explain. I'm afraid I'll end up knotted
and half-hitched because of my complaints
of being human, yet would cut their beaks off
rather than suffer a spell which would turn me back.
May 2024
Laurel Benjamin is a San Francisco Bay Area native, where she invented a secret language with her brother. She has work forthcoming or published in Lily Poetry Review, Pirene's Fountain, The Shore, Mom Egg Review, Sheila-Na-Gig, Banyan Review. Affiliated with the Bay Area Women’s Poetry Salon and Ekphrastic Writers, she holds an MFA from Mills College. She is a reader for Common Ground Review and has featured in the Lily Poetry Review Salon. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.
Art: Surrender with Aesculus Californica by Kat Cervantes