Counting to himself, again
Ron Louie
In the non-erotic intimacy of that moment,
undressing her, drying her, enduring the wait,
he was naturally counting to himself again.
He knew that it was a device for distraction,
silently counting backwards, with un-numbered
missteps and restarts, the seconds fleeting anyway,
and that serially subtracting by threes or sevens
was not a practical skill, but a tester’s earnest
attempt to discover a person’s conditional status,
as if that journey had already begun, down a slide,
not fast enough for fun or terror or even relief, yet
desperately futile to try and claw a way back.
Knowing is not a power to halt a person from slippage.
Counting down is not retrospection, it’s just something
to do, as artless as typing away at ephemera non-metrical.
For the duo in the non-erotic intimacy of that moment,
one of them is counting again; perhaps now both are,
each one driven by a single shared subconscious pulse.
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A bird twitches, then disappears
Ron Louie
Dull, heavy, and palpable, the single sound
disrupted a reverie. Through the glass,
I saw two birds, grey, white and brown speckled.
One was standing, alert, head cocked and scanning.
I’m not a bird watcher, but even so could tell
that the one lying on its back appeared unnatural.
It was only the size of my open palm.
As I watched, its intricately spiked right talon
twitched once, then remained still. There was no sound.
Moments passed as I stared. Was there a liquid
at its beak, or around its head? The standing bird
had already flown away, needing to be elsewhere.
I could not recall a bird shriek, or cawing,
the rustle of a flock or even a single bird’s fluttering;
the sudden thudding incident became a silent intrigue.
I looked down at my own open palm, to
gauge its size, to gauge the bird’s size,
to gauge this moment as the bird lay still.
My palm was the perfect size to cradle
the creature, as it seemed to be attaining perfection.
The open hand was also the perfect size
to have swatted that bird down, if it ever
had that intention or inclination or skill,
in need or in cruelty or in jest,
the perfect size to have proffered
a tenderness, a soothing caress; from
cruelty to gentleness, all human intrusions.
As I regarded my palm, its creased and mottled flesh,
the faintest susurration arose, and when I turned,
the bird had vanished, leaving no trace of its being.
The fictions now multiplied:
the quietest predator had swooped in,
carrying away its still warm prey,
or the bird was now resurrected,
perhaps just stunned for that moment,
oblivious to observations and opinions,
the victim of an atmospheric
collision, or concussion, whether
romantic or hostile or accidental.
Or was it that improbable bird, so fallible
as to tumble from the sky, debunking
the dogma of an impeccable Nature,
possibly so senseless with pleasure,
the soaring ecstasy for once
quashing its forceful mandate to fly,
choosing to abandon control, aimlessly
allowing fate and wind and gravity
to have their own stochastic ways,
now suddenly compelled to awaken, to rustle itself,
and apparently finding the apparatus unbroken,
restoring breath and the blue sky in ascending;
or was it all the rapture of a reader,
generating a perception of grounded things
out of the nebulous thin air of a silent morning.
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[poems and blog copyright Ron Louie with its publication 10.10.22]
