Sheera Talpaz
It is hard to go outdoors when the birds are falling.
You heard this from a Kurdish woman, and you are convinced.
It is hard to go outside if you are anxious. And anxiety arises
like steam from the side of a building
with little regard for anyone’s feelings. It is hard to go outside
to see what? The homeless daysleeping, huddled
by the steaming buildings, no signage, done, as they say, in.
Somebodies rallying against war, against taxes, against the suddenness
of life, how one minute everything is fun and the next you turn
on the news, finding you are divorced and dying and generally undiscovered:
The beads of sweat collect like signatures on a forehead.
Sometimes it is so hot outside, and sometimes so cold.
Outside is not user-friendly; it is small text, no glasses.
Outside is moth-eaten, dust-veiled, distressing.
There is no pollution indoors. No traffic jams or cursing cabbies.
Your dog lives inside. Sweet Walter, your dog.
Walter asks to go for a walk with a stinging cry.
Nothing can die in flight, you think.
Outside chemical weapons hit the air and it makes you dizzy.
The birds, they hit your head.