Kristin Emanuel
at a birdwatching meet: funerary almost, that we should be so present for this absence;
we leave ourselves at the door. clomp mud from our shoes, souls draped on coatracks, glimmering blue-black like resin or iridescent feathers.
we eat finger foods, crackers and snack cakes, sip cherry liquor while the television broadcasts webcams with empty feeders. nests cradling slivered eggshells.
one night, we watch videos: a magician's doves disappearing mid-show just as he flings them from his sleeves, each dissolving in a burst of sooty light, burnt end-to-end like cigarettes until only their contours remain. parrots puddling into painted residue. birds abandoning weddings.
there is a moment when birdwatching becomes search party, becomes vigil; pareidolia. we relive their leaving again and again. lover who pools in corners, on bedspreads.
space is nimble in remembering—generous, even.