"Bird" by Niki Herd

View this email on a browser Forward to a friend Support Poem-a-Day January 20, 2020   Bird   Niki Herd

Yesterday, at Shepherd and Gray, the parking lot was filled with birds, black birds, actually grackles. It was a grackle lot; instead of a bumper on a car, there were ten grackles, instead of a sunroof, fifty grackles sat high, their bodies shimmers under cheap strip mall lights as shoppers delayed their spending to pull out phones and take shots, such spectators we were, like that summer in July, when I was left again to wonder who was the child and who the adult, that Sunday evening that hung in the air like bug spray when my father, the one who fed me and gave me his last name, stood two stories on our family porch, every neighbor, in all manner of dress, drawn from their homes, in the street watching. Let me tell you how he spread his arms wide, like the man he was before Vietnam, or before the schizophrenia. Let me tell you how a child learns the alphabet by counting, how she learns only 2 letters separate the words hero and heroin, how he stood high on the ledge of a porch the child never much liked because there was a crack in its wooden center as if the world was waiting to open its jaws to swallow her body whole. Let me tell you how that July evening didn't hold death, but instead was the preface to death. The point being he jumped. Some will say there are worse songs to sing, others might believe it a tragedy, but who are we to question the Gods when a man unconcerned with the inconvenience of his presence shows up in a parking lot winged as an army of himself? Eventually, lights went dark in the shops and each watcher retraced their steps back              home to find their families, to rejoice over food, to laugh and settle the night; and the birds, steadfast they stood, not quite ready for flight—            Copyright © 2020 by Niki Herd. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 20, 2020, by the Academy of American Poets. About this Poem   "At some point I realized I hadn't written a poem about my father—the very young man who legally adopted me when he married my mother— who was a Marine and  more complicated than this poem suggests. He didn't die that evening, but did years later at the age of twenty-six. When I sat down to write about this thing that happened, I was concerned with the disposability of black male bodies; had circumstances been different, would my father have lived long enough to see his grandchildren? Given who he was—and what this country remains to be—I know the answer to this question. This poem is my attempt at creating a different ending." —Niki Herd   Niki Herd is the co-editor of Laura Hershey: On the Life & Work of an American Master (Pleiades Press, 2019) and author of The Language of Shedding Skin (Main Street Rag, 2011). She lives in Houston. Poetry by Herd   The Language of Shedding Skin (Main Street Rag, 2011) "Harvest" by Cecily Parks "Looking Back on the Muckleshoot Reservation from Galisteo Street, Santa Fe" by Arthur Sze "Indigo" by Ellen Bass January Guest Editor: Meg Day   Thanks to Meg Day, author of Last Psalm at Sea Level (Barrow Street, 2014), who curated Poem-a-Day for this month's weekdays. Read a Q&A about Day's curatorial approach and find out more about our guest editors for the year. A culture break, a source of daily renewal...   If reading Poem-a-Day has become a meaningful part of your day, please consider supporting this free series with a donation. Your gift makes publishing Poem-a-Day possible. Thanks for being a part of the Academy of American Poets community. To learn about other programs, including National Poetry Month, Poem in Your Pocket Day, the annual Poets Forum, and more, visit poets.org   Unsubscribe here.   © Academy of American Poets 75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038