bird hysteria #1
in our garden one spring, a palm-sized bird
built a nest in a house designed
for decoration. our kids named her drama
mama bird, calls so ear-splitting she
forced hyacinths to break through hard
soil, made bees swarm from the hive
into the clouds, made clouds clamor
with thunder, yet did not birth one
drop of rain. if you crossed the nebulous
border, she puffed up, fluffed her feathers
& chirped a warning—her gaze locked
on you more fiercely than any circling
raptor or cop. backed you far away
from the nest where her chicks hid
behind her badge of protection. some said
she was just hysterical but i heard
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ hysteria is something you inherit then inhabit
that misty morning i could hear her over
the sound of my screaming teapot, steam
spewing from its mouth. i watched mama
walk a long line of sorrow—solitary,
chalked, abysmal. she moaned from deep
caverns, as fright fueled into lungs & throat
burned with grief, forgot how to form
speech. sharp rocks in her mouth
entombed all learned language— then
with tongue loaded, cocked & steady,
she loosed scorching-hot-siren sound
rushing-rapids-over-memory sound,
the only sound left for a mama bird
to make. every spring this song sparrow
returns, inhabits her nest, keeps one eye fixed
on the blue jay, he still hungry for easy prey.
a. adenike phillips (she/her) is a Black, feminist poet, visual artist, and oral history practitioner based in New Jersey. In her work, she is committed to documenting and amplifying the stories of Black people with specific emphasis on Black women. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming The Amistad, Gulf Stream Magazine and Arts for The People Anthology. Her visual work was exhibited as part of the Community Scholars program at Rutgers Newark.
