POETRY: Vesper Sparrows by Deborah Digges

May 17, 2018

I love to watch them sheathe themselves mid-air, shut wings and ride the light’s poor spine to earth, to touch down in gutters, in the rainbowed urine of suicides, just outside Bellevue’s walls. From in there the ransacked cadavers are carried up the East River to Potter’s Field as if they were an inheritance, gleaned of savable parts, their diseases jarred and labeled, or incinerated, the ashes of metastasized vision professing the virus that lives beyond the flesh, in air… The first time I saw the inside of anything alive, a downed bird opened cleanly under my heel. I knelt to watch the spectral innards shine and quicken, the heart-whir magnify. And though I can’t say now what kind of bird it was, nor the [...]