Recompense

He guides me to the soft center of

the mattress, his talons pucker my

night sheets, his pinions press deep.

His third eye centered and obvious

in profile, studies my stash of

shortbread cookies. I offer him one,

watch crumbs skitter across the bed.
I ask his reason for disturbing my

dreams. He apologizes, offers his secret

for richer cookies, a fistful of pecans,

shares his true purpose in visiting: his

sorrow for the loss of habitat, his family’s

frequent relocation. I listen to his

doleful stories, his voice softened from

ginger and tears, his poorly-concealed

fears. To trap his bright body, trace my name

along his slippery back, indelible proof of

our meeting, to release him from the

silt of my dreams. An unnecessary

offering, he says, praising the lift of his

own wings, deriding the density of human

form, how lithe his own. He compares

the length of pinion to arm, then the

surprise request for recompense.

Bring us your children dressed in beaded

muslin, braid their hair with thin wire,

perfume their skin with milk of aloe.

I find muslin in the attic, fine wire for binding,

round tins with clattering beads. The plant
is milked at the kitchen sink, the children

awakened one moment after midnight. I

smooth back their hair, watch them stretch

and quiver in their agreeable tiredness.

Barbed calls filter down the chimney with

a lover’s insistence, Bring us your children

dressed in muslin, scented with aloe.

I struggle to open the flue, build up a

fire from dry kindling. I ease the children

away from the flames, kiss the tops of

their heads, ask them to huddle close; but

they are squirming in discomfort, the

prickly beginnings of wings, foreheads

opened raw and blinking. As the sky turns

white, a hundred blackbirds on the line,

three hundred eyes looking inward. The

children have brought me their boxes of

mismatched puzzles, keyless diaries. On

their slight shoulders, jackets of feathers.