At Ruffner Mountain

At Ruffner Mountain

by Tina Mozelle Braziel

 

I think about the knees I can’t see,

squeezed between the doctor’s fingers,

how it feels to be held there, how legs

can’t bend, tuck away into the Acadian

flycatcher’s belly. I like her throat,

beak widened in scream, the throat dark

and lined in yellow. Yes, there are stripes.

Yes, I see yellow. Yes, I want to stroke

feathers ruffled on her head. I forget

about the band, that it is a good thing,

forget what it must feel like to be marked

and carry a mark saying who one is, forget

how we all want to take hold but want

to be held by grace more than beauty

or power. No, I am not sad when she flies,

when she becomes more swoop than creature.

Yes, I feel more wonder for how quick

she darts beyond us and the pavilion’s eaves.

Yes, I wish this the only violence against her.