Bird Man, and: First Six Years of the Green River Murders

Bird Man

The morning before he diedhe went to the rooftop, bags full.

Feathers had poked out of his pockets,veined the pages of his books, linedthe staircase, years of gull, finch,macaw, peacock, crow.

Some twenty-five percent of birdshad died during the Pleistocene.Had he studied beaks, wings, bonesand their relationship to dinosaurs?

Had he run his fingers daily overthe barbs, which bear barbules, whichin turn bear barbicels in a continuousvein, to feel the wind in his blood?

As he raised his arms again and again,and the sky turned a rainbowof green, black-tipped, blue and white hornyepidermal outgrowths

did he believe in transmigration?Or was it envy?

First Six Years of the Green River Murders

1. My daughter’s friend OpalMy daughter Jennifer is a puzzle withouta picture on the box to go by, climbing outof her window after midnight, hangingwith Opal and her brother. The counselortells me: Lay yourself downlike a dog in front of her bedroom door.

The Green River bank buzzes with bees, thickpurple clusters of blackberries droopingfrom barbed vines, rootsanchoring the river swelled with rain.The ground under the berries keepsOpal for three days curled into herself,fingers brushed by leaves.

Autopsy.Samples.Opal’s parents sit in the precinct officesurrounded by file cabinets. They studydental records. They gripthe arms of the metal chairs.

2. My friend Julia talks to Jennifersong birds sing but they knowthere are cats

I knowOpal’s gone

girl, there are men born or made fullof sin and then they’re set to satisfythe hunger that licks their heartno girl no woman’s safe

I knowOpal’s gone

when they’re gorged with hungercunning, girl, like the man on crutcheswith a fake cast, a man pulling outhis tens, twenties then his knife

I knowOpal’s gone

even when you think you’re strongsmart feeling fine you gotto be careful, girl, when one of thosemen is out imitating needy or slickpumped with promises you got to stayin off the street, girl, holding yourselflike a full jaryou don’t want to spill

I know.Opal’s gone.

3. AbandonedFreddy’s squawking wakes me,this hand-me-down cockatiel,his ruff of feathers brushingthe cage bars and floor.

Jennifer’s books stay piledon the unmade bed, matted bear flopped in the corner. A pink sweater dangles, one-armedover the hamper rim, socks snaking

under the desk as if she’s coming home.Her clothes hang in the closetlike Halloween costumes.The night light’s burned out.

Freddy attacks the bars in a frenzy of wings,feathers flying, claws scraping, his screecheslike one-note sirens tempting meto open the cage,let him go.

4. Six monthsThe Green River’s swelled with snowmelt.Fishermen in hip boots throwtheir lines. Opal’s mother can’t bearto drive across the bridge nearwhere Opal and the others were found.

5. Because I’d know if you were deadWhen the call comes that one of sixskeletal remains might be yours,I weep for the five young womenwhose dental records have names, whose familieshave to bury what is left. Weepfor the guilt of my joy becauseyour name is still missing.

I will your face in the grocery store aisles,on the sidewalks, in the news. At the mall,I tap a young woman on the shoulder.When she turns, I say, Sorry.

I used to ask how people could go on livingwith their children missing. I still tape notes to the door:Please come home. Please.The notes slap the door, yellow in the sun.

6. A yearI curse tree limbswinter-lit to a waxy patina,scatter crumbs for the birds,give five-dollar bills to the homeless.

I build shrines inside...