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