“The Writer” by Eric Robert Nolan

“The Writer”

At night he dreamt of birds, thou­sands of them,
impris­oned in his house.

Ravens screamed in the attic.
Spar­rows pan­icked in the hall.
He sat at his desk. A Jay pecked
Fran­ti­cally at his shirt sleeve.

The base­ment door revealed
Tor­rents of finches, erupt­ing in the dark
A loud gray storm
Of beaks and tiny claws.

Seag­ulls suf­fered in the cup­boards.
Para­keets in the rafters, trapped,
Raged in Etruscan.

He crossed the room.
Owls
Moaned under the floorboards.

Twelve red car­di­nals
Lined his kitchen shelves –
A dis­cor­dant jury.

Pea­cocks plead in the oven.
In a jar of sugar
Tit­mice strug­gled for air.

At his desk were
Pho­tographs, let­ters
Pens and a half dead Marten.

He reached for his old brown afghan but felt
Bone and feather
The heav­ing brown breast
Of a starv­ing eagle.

Some­times the scratch
Of pen against paper brought
Respite from birdsong:

Two less wings against the silence
One less voice in that
Trou­bled aviary.

A par­rot perched
On his paper stacks.
“Remorse,” it offered fee­bly.
“Regret,” he answered back.

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