Marianne Szlyk

The Bird Looks into the House of Cats

 

One beady eye sees all.  Tabby
is dozing on a pile of clothes:
a winter hat, socks, spring sweaters.
In sleep, her cheek nuzzles a book
of a poet’s letters from Brazil.
It’s almost fall. The bright edges
of locust leaves, roots in thin
soil, yellow.  Summer’s clouds clear
out, leaving skies free for birds.

The calico guards the kitchen.
Perching on the back of a chair
that, never used for guests,
is just for cats and coats,
she glares at all that cross her path. 

The bird now raps on the glass,
his beak a cat’s paw, a fist.
He cocks his sleek head and pretends
that he is ready to fly through
the house of cats.  The tabby snores.
The calico will never move. 

The bird flies off. He seeks
a seed, a crumb, a drop
of water, open windows where
humans and cats are not.

Originally published in Mad Swirl, March 2020

 

Nature on the Other Side of the Window
            after Charles Mingus’ “Mood Indigo”

 

As the train extracts itself from
Trenton, New Jersey, it follows clouds
south to the city of humidity
and dress codes.  I watch the sky,
ignoring the ground with green leaves
I can’t place and greige buildings
smeared with graffiti.  The train ambles
past, following the rhythm of brush
strokes.  Jaki Byard’s piano on YouTube
splashes.  If I were on the
other side of this window,
I could feel water’s wet kiss on
my forearm.  Instead, it reminds me
how long it will be until twilight
when I emerge from this train.
Only then will I smell raindrops  
on asphalt and feel indigo air.

  

Originally published in The San Pedro River Review.

 

 

After October

            For Felino A. Soriano (RIP)

 

Written in the brilliant corner
of a living room, his poems
once climbed up the wrought-iron
bookcase, past his father’s albums,
past his friends’ books, past his daughter’s
picture to the world beyond. 
There his words still breathe, racing
like raindrops down a summer window,
rising like smoke from the last century’s
jazz clubs, mingling with the notes
that Monk and Parker had played.

Tonight, at the crowded cafe,
a young musician sits at the piano
in front of the painted skyline
that appears to be New York,
not the city of parking lots outside.
Like the leaves from street trees,
the man’s notes shake free in the wind.
Brilliant colors scatter without
anyone to write them down.

 

Originally published in Ramingo’s Porch.