Marco A. Domínguez

With no one to ask,
the boy I was
kneels on concrete,
alone by the pool.

The water, clear enough
to view the bottom slant,
holds circles on its surface
like waves moving away
from the jet-black bird
at its center. I notice
the body oils yellow
around the bird.

And, not able to help,
I wish for my father
to come and fetch it out,
but no one dives in.

So the boy I was
prays for the water
to soak up the beak
and wings, until all is soaked
and nothing is left
except hints of feathers
like the dark undersides
of waves.

But I can't pray for that,
when birds refuse to sink
to their shadows
and slide down
the deep end.

So I imagine my small hands
entering the yellowed water,
feeling for the blackbird,
and lifting it out with a stream
that seeps feathers and wet
through my fingers,

marking the concrete
to say, here is where a bird dies.
Remember this.




I started with the title, then came the image of a bird in the water, which sparked memory, and, in the end, this poem that used to be in long lines and tercets became a short lined, drowned bird.