The Vireo
The US Navy named a class of minesweepers after birds.
As a boy, my uncle loved the woods, knew every bird,
but war broke out, and he found himself at sea,
trading song for sonar, flock for fleet. His ship, the Vireo,
dipped like a gannet through steel-gray waves,
and for a time he felt as free as a bird
as he and his mates cleared safe passage
for larger ships, stokers sweating below deck
as they bent their backs to feed the boilers, until
Pearl Harbor when Vireo joined the fight, her three-inch guns
expending round after round of shells as my uncle
stood topsides and watched in shock as planes
exploded, scalding the air with balls of swirling flames.
Black smoke seared his lungs, and the rasp
of his breathing always frightened me.
Now in quiet, shady woods, his ship’s namesake
forages for strips of bark, of grass, of wasp-made paper,
then binds the whole with spider webs to form a vessel
that holds new life. From first light to dusk, the vireo
sings a question, then tries to answer it,
over and over again. A repeating heartbeat.
I throw down seeds to invite the bird inside.
As a boy, my uncle loved the woods, knew every bird,
but war broke out, and he found himself at sea,
trading song for sonar, flock for fleet. His ship, the Vireo,
dipped like a gannet through steel-gray waves,
and for a time he felt as free as a bird
as he and his mates cleared safe passage
for larger ships, stokers sweating below deck
as they bent their backs to feed the boilers, until
Pearl Harbor when Vireo joined the fight, her three-inch guns
expending round after round of shells as my uncle
stood topsides and watched in shock as planes
exploded, scalding the air with balls of swirling flames.
Black smoke seared his lungs, and the rasp
of his breathing always frightened me.
Now in quiet, shady woods, his ship’s namesake
forages for strips of bark, of grass, of wasp-made paper,
then binds the whole with spider webs to form a vessel
that holds new life. From first light to dusk, the vireo
sings a question, then tries to answer it,
over and over again. A repeating heartbeat.
I throw down seeds to invite the bird inside.
A Choice
(After the painting The Alchemist by Remedios Varo)
In the kitchen, eating cereal alone,
a thin, yellow light filters in
through snow-silled windows,
the furnace in the cobwebbed cellar,
broken. Air presses like chilled cellophane
against my face, my socks inadequate
on the nicked, scratched, black and white
linoleum squares—or are they diamonds?
Depending on how I tilt my head, I see
squares/diamonds/squares/
diamonds
and the floor swirls up like a genie from a bottle,
flowing here, tucking in there, until warmth
cloaks me from chin to toes.
In the kitchen, eating cereal alone,
a thin, yellow light filters in
through snow-silled windows,
the furnace in the cobwebbed cellar,
broken. Air presses like chilled cellophane
against my face, my socks inadequate
on the nicked, scratched, black and white
linoleum squares—or are they diamonds?
Depending on how I tilt my head, I see
squares/diamonds/squares/
diamonds
and the floor swirls up like a genie from a bottle,
flowing here, tucking in there, until warmth
cloaks me from chin to toes.
Amy Gordon spent her childhood years in New England, England, and Brazil and has spent her
adult years teaching theater skills to middle schoolers. Her poems have appeared in the Amsterdam Review, Blue Nib, The Massachusetts Review, Pomegranate London and other journals. She has published two chapbooks, Deep Fahrenheit (Prolific Press, 2019), The Yellow Room, (Finishing Line Press, 2022), and her chapbook, Leaf Town, won the 2023 Slate Roof Press Elyse Wolf chapbook prize and will be forthcoming. She lives in Western Massachusetts. |