Thursday, April 27, 2017

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We sit side by side by side on the bench in front of the bushes.
There is a box with a speaker on it bolted to a branch above us.
A bird alights on the limb and sticks its head in the back of the box.
From the speaker a male voice narrates the entire plot to the movie Grease 2.
You sigh and rest your head on my shoulder and tell me
that when you were a young girl you had watched this movie
over and over again, singing all the songs, never aware that it was a sequel
to what most people consider to be a far superior movie.

The bird pulls its head out of the box
and we can see that one of its eyes is horribly scabbed over.

It flaps away and a single long brown feather is dislodged from its tail.
The feather floats gently down and you reach out your hand for it.
You shriek and pull your hand away.
The feather has slashed your palm, forming a deep cut.
I pull out my handkerchief and wrap it tightly around your hand.
I'm too distracted to notice that a cicada has flown into the metal box
A moment later from the speaker comes a voice with a thick German accent
 speculating about the death of Franz Schubert.

The gray handkerchief is soaked in blood
and you say you're starting to feel a little dizzy.

A snake crawls along the branch, snaps up the cicada, sticks its head in the box,
starts telling us about a great deal we can get on car insurance.
I want to hear, it sounds like a really good deal, but you seem to be losing more blood
than one would expect from just a slice on the hand and I need to get you somewhere
so you can get it properly bandaged up, I suspect but do not say that it looks like
you are probably going to need stitches, and every branch on every tree is speaking
the forest is full of voices and I want to stop let you fall to the ground
so I can listen to every one of them

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