Fiction

But what’s it for?

You like birds right?

I do.

You like funny birds?

Sure.

Okay. So once I came across a bird trapped inside a large blue cage and I was struck immediately by several things. The bars were the same blue as Yves Klein’s Blue Monochrome. I had a particular penchant for Klein and knew the shade immediately. Also the bird had unforgettable piercing black eyes, a broad pale beak and wore a charming black beret on its head, not to mention a sweet red and white gingham dress.

Do you think you could open this cage for me, the bird said, doffing the beret.

Well sure, I replied and I reached over to pull at the door but of course it was locked. I’m not sure what made me think for a moment it would be that easy. There was no obvious lock though. Just a handle. How is it done, I said.

The man who put me here, he whispers a poem.

Really. A poem about what?

Last time it was thieves.

Why thieves?

I don’t ask questions, the bird said. It’s about thieves. Do you know any poems about thieves?

I did. I knew a number. People were always stealing things. A long poem or a short poem, I said, but in the back of my mind I wondered if my question should be why is the poem about thieves?

I am not a thief, the bird said, as if it had read my mind. I have done nothing wrong, it added.

I took the bird at its word.

Do you know any of the words of the poem, I asked. Anything at all.

Yes, the bird said, there is a line “each new poem, had someone to take it in”. But I must tell you the man changes the poem each week. So we must hurry, he will come tomorrow.

Each week? I said. Are you only let out once a week?

Oh no, I am never let out, that is just when he opens the door to check that I am not hoarding anything.

Like what, I said.

Like coins or knives, the bird said.

Where would you get coins or knives from?

I can make them.

Is that what you do then, make knives and coins?

Once, the bird said, but I do not want to make them any longer. It makes me too sad.

What were you thinking of doing then?

Making clouds.

But clouds already exist.

Yes but I want to make coloured ones. It seems such a waste not to have so much more colour in the sky, don’t you think.

And suddenly I did. Can you show me, I asked.

The bird fell silent. There was soon a shuffling inside the box. A small bang ignited the quiet.

Well, the bird said.

And I looked up. It was truly extraordinary. How long will it stay like that?

Not long, the bird said. It’s too hard from in here. Won’t you say the poem that is about thieves now. Then I can show what I can really do.

I believe it may be “Thieves” by Marin Sorescu?

Yes, that is the one, the bird said with sudden recognition. I remember this name.

When I finished I waited with great anticipation. Well, I said, shouldn’t it have opened by now.

The bird was silent.

I don’t understand, I said. This is the poem. The most recent poem. Yes?

Yes, the bird said. But somehow the man must know. You will have to try again. But it will not be about thieves. It will be something else.

Like what?

Try the opposite of thieves. He likes these types of games.

I thought for a moment about the opposite of thieves and was curious to find a poem by Emily Dickinson did come to mind.

To fight aloud, is very brave –

But gallanter, I know

Who charge within the bosom

The Cavalry of Wo –

Then we heard it. A turn in the invisible lock.

Keep going, the bird began to shout. Keep going.

So I finished with Dickinson and recited Plath’s “The Courage of Shutting Up”. And there was yet another turn in the lock. I recited more and more about bravery and courage and wisdom and we could both hear the tumblers turning and then I stopped.

Don’t stop, cried the bird. There’s only one left.

I don’t have any more, I lied. I suddenly knew what the man had done. He had left us breadcrumbs, lured us with fantasies. He would not set the bird free, ever. That was his torture. And I had grown weary. It was hopeless.

You cannot leave me here, the bird said. After all this.

I looked once more at the bird. Then it came to me, the one poem, the only poem, and I recited it “What It Looks Like To Us and the Words We Use” by Ada Limón and the last tumbler turned.

Then what happened, you say.

Well the bird walked on his way.

That was it.

Sure. What else was the bird to do?

I thought you’d share some moment.

We did.

So this bird just walks off into the sunset and you’ve never seen it again?

Not necessarily, I say, thumbing the single, gold coin in my pocket.