The Scarlet Ibis, Section VII

Once, I got lost, 
flew over that place,
saw the tourists in their wrinkled  pastels.
The memorial between the barracks B 
The bronze barbed-wire figures twisted
to torment, the wedged-shaped
building, its barred entrance,
the strip of marble extending
through a hole in the roof,
the menorah resting at the top.
I felt weak
and landed on it.
No one could believe what they saw B 
me resting there B 
so they pretended not to see.
I stood for much more than a moment,
watched all those bare legs 
move from spot to spot,
thought how much I needed
to find a way back
to my flock.

And you expect me to believe this?

As I do you  
and do not.

More by Susan Hahn

Cycle of Sounds

Hickory, dickory, dock-- 
it began of course in the nursery. 
Mouth so safe--the tucked in 
repetitions that would make 
a child smile, absurd words-- 
how I loved the non-
sense. The mouse

ran up the clock. 
Then, the clock struck one. 
The chemotherapy is working. 
Her hair has not yet fallen 
to the dried out ground--just thins. 
I sit and listen

as she retells her life's stories--hear only 
the fragile rhythms. The notes expand 
then stick together. The accordion of her 
years fans then shrinks to a small space. 
The music and the place
will remain here after

conversation is over. I run 
Down there every afternoon to check 
the minute and the hour
hands, the drum and the pendulum, the weight-- 
to reverse the escapement.
The mouse ran down, 
the mouse ran up. She's trapped

inside the ticking clock, 
and I flail against the break-
proof glass, not able to get her out. 
As ridiculous as it sounds

hickory, dickory, dock.