Envy

 

Watching the yellow-billed starling feed his lady with a seed

slipped into her open beak I am reminded of summer afternoons

in Keith Palmer’s attic bedroom—me and a girlfriend

 

mascara and tube tops worn for the slack-jawed boys

in stained jeans circle-sitting on matted beige carpet. We sucked

in bong smoke, exhaled into one another’s parted lips because

 

it stretched our dime bag and (we thought) got us

higher. Oblivious to the hazards born of mouths, we made out

and shared gum, said “mother” and “fucker” and lied about what we longed for.

 

I believed in the safety of numbers, dumb about the damage

such a flock could do to my imagination. I ignored the murmurations

of my heart telling me I’d be better off flying alone.

 

Part of me is furious to have been born human, the burden

to impress, produce, ever improve. This life is too long

and lonely, haunted by unwritten opuses and abandoned dreams.

 

You, lady starling, are so lucky to have been spared all that, your masterpiece

the nest you selected from all others, decorated with colored petals and bright

green blades, its builder the one who feeds you now in an act so close to love.