by Eleanor Ball
It was us that ran over the birds in midair. I remember the thump
of their bodies smacking the suspension, tremors
thrumming up our legs. I told Liv it wasn’t her fault.
They had flown in front of the Cruze, a flock of starlings:
mothers, fathers, children. What can prepare you for that?
If she’d swerved, she would only have hit different mothers.
But it was the thick of August, and the car would not cool after that.
We drove to see Barbie with sweat staining our pink tees,
chipped nail polish, hot wind pulsing through the windows.
At last, we found a mechanic to open her air conditioning.
We hovered around the car, blacktop sizzling beneath our shoes,
as he turned his wrench, and peered over his shoulder.
Floating in the refrigerant: a yolk-slick bird’s eye,
a handful of sticky feathers, and a limp mother bird,
head rolling in my palm as I lifted her out. Maybe
we were only fools. But when I held her body
to my face, I thought a psalm still whistled
from her belly.
::
Eleanor Ball is a queer writer from Des Moines, Iowa. Her work has appeared in Barnstorm, Vagabond City Lit, Write or Die, and other publications, and she has been nominated for Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions.
Image: Nick Fewings
ID: a flock of starlings.
Psaltery & Lyre 