by Raisa Tolchinsky

a bird caught in a stairway only knows how to fly upwards

even when the only way out is through the black iron bars

of the gate on the ground floor

still, we kept batting at it with a broom,

my brother and i, although

for many years i did not understand

there was nothing to do but wait.

the first day of track season

the coach scrubbed the starter pistol's

orange plastic parts: stirrup pin,

hammer,

plunger spring,

caliber

weighed each piece in his palm—

the gun is just as important as the running,

he said, the running is less important than knowing

when to run:

nose to asphalt on the track

my little ritual, imagining myself

fast-twitch wings.

when i heard the shot on howard st

when i saw the boy stumbling forward

from that blue square of sky i felt no fear

had already started running, had trained for this

without knowing it was what i had been training for,

no time to think

how this gun

had a bullet.

now i cannot stop thinking of how

i should have run towards him—

for months i have walked into red punches

thrown tires, whipped chains

preparing for 2 minutes

of stepping willingly

into the hardest part.

after my first fight, e. & i on the locker room floor.

i said, bring me back

from the dead.

bring me back.

& when the blue bruises appeared

on my back,

i could not trace their source.

what is the difference between hurt and hymn?

between praise and hunger?

how many days did we return home to find the bird

still in the stairwell,

mistaking windows for exits?

(sound of wings tapping glass)

the flying upwards is in their bones,

they will do it even if

it kills them