Wild Parrots, and: Superman

Wild Parrots

Kamikaze squadrons, they scream through townunannounced, high above the boulevard—blur of freakish greensmocking rain-gray sky. Why today? Exitingthe post office, when I'm thinking aboutrun-over-by-a-bus Leslie in her hospital bed,bouquet of innards lifted, laid to the side, restingtemporarily outside her body like an offering,the skin-wall sliced to make roomfor her lungs' swollen buds. I don't knowif I believe in signs, only their masteryover my life. Can you feel those lumps in my neck,and the soft tissue gulch where torso meets thigh?Consider them seeds, my mortality map,a hunt and peck game Death plays,keeping himself entertained. And enough with the beaksand paws, prehensile tails trashing my dreams every night.Clearly, we've jumped the shark, okay?What I'm saying is, the last time I saw Leslie,before the screech of tires, torn skirt and battered bone,she was laughing, though nothing funny about it—the family gathered and her eyes half-closed,hazy with wine, pills: daily regimenfor her malaise, her so-called purpose-less lifethrough which, to our increasing alarmshe seemed, lately, to be sleepwalking,deaf to brakes and sirens,to the furious clap of wings ringing her ears.

Superman

Downtown Los Angeles, ca. 1976

Perched behind glassin my father's office,34th floor of theUnion Bank Building,I mastered my powers—penetrated windows,sailed down the steel facadeto take the city's pulse:surge of cars, trains, buses,small as corpusclesrushing the spindly grids—the day's random danceof choreographed chaos.Father at his desk,silver bullet of a Tiffany penpoised above whatever document,secret as the cryptic patternsI traced on his tie,the terse, mysterious wordshe fired into the receiver,gray gravel of his voicemuscling the silence:Just gimme another minute, kiddo.Because it was a schoolholiday, because he loved mehe workedand I waited, wondered atthe sky's blue cape,my mind speeding along freeways,over the dirty blond beachesnear our house,the yellow curtains,mother there, in her apron stirring paprika into chicken,carrots, onion, great clotsof sour cream—the transplanted recipeshe'd farmed from her mother'sNebraska kitchen.Entranced, her spoonspins circles throughthe maze of meat and fat.Is she ponderinga double life as well,like her man whostays out too late,the night's urgent businesscalling himto its lovely side?My mother knew the face,knew the snapshotshe'd unearthed one dayfrom his buckled brief,the black box openedand my what a stinkwhen she did that!Brother and I fleeing,slipped into shadowsbeneath our beds,our bodies flat, castdown to wood and dust,invisible thenlike we'd seen on TV,little heroes—we held our breath,our ears,and waitedfor the foul cloud,the killing green,to pass over.