The Mocking of Birds

Fact:

I studied fictional

Mocking birds in order

to impress a teacher whom I might have loved, once.

Boo Radley, that is.

.

We’d rendezvous at the navy front

of midnight through gardens

wet dug soil; back gate open

Toe graze, silent pendulum into

balance pointed cold

play of two leather stitched shoes

Belonging to a teacher whom I might have loved, once

Boo Radley, that is

.

We’d venture beyond night

flash light pebble thrown

shadows under grass illuminated.

Ebow propped, dipped tears, cold,

play suspended

Notes, spark leveled

Incinerated whisper

Fingered constellations

Empty school parking lot

Hidden demure behind day’s broad,

white pillar

.

We’d deliver secret gifts of silver

Mid-night setting patterns of history

in reflective aluminum confetti

Comfort discovered,

Roll arm forehead to shoulder

Fleece wrapped, thumb course fabric,

carved smooth, vein coursing

Quake, Cross layered in exasperation.

You are leaving.

Words spoken by a teacher whom I might have loved, once.

Boo Radley, that is

.

I read the books

Studied all the fictional birds

Even mocked in vocal contest

But like Boo, I, too, am rendered

silent

Unattended, forgotten

Dulled from sun’s scrutiny

Hidden under cloak,

rough-stitching poetry

In order to impress a teacher of literature

whom I might have loved.

Fact:

Boo Radley makes it fictional.

.

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