Birdhouse

Children of domesticity, of electric lightand cold conditioned air, my brother and I

left our parents' house. Followed the power linesinto the woods behind the suburbs, headed again

to the old tree fort. The power lines hummed like bugs,it rained all day. The leaves felt like wet newspaper

under our feet. We picked up the biggest stickswe could find, swung at each other

until they broke—our knuckles raw and palmsfull of splinters. All the birds said I'm here,

I'm here. We didn't know who built the fort,how long it had been there in its clearing

under the octopus shadows of the oaks.It was camouflaged in Spanish moss. The boards

were rotting. Nails the color of old teeth.Sometimes the fort was a building burning

or a pirate ship. Sometimes we werepirates and sometimes we were firefighters,

but that day we weren't anything but ourselvesbecause a birdhouse hung from the fort.

We never saw it before. We never saw anyone elsein those woods. The birdhouse hung from

one of the fort's protruding nails by a bit of unravelingtwine looped through its roof. And rain

falling a little heavier. I got up on my toesand put my eye to the dark window

of the birdhouse and inside was a wolf spiderthe size of my hand. I fell back into the leaves

and they stuck to me like blank nametags.I brushed them off. I lifted my brother up

so he could see too, and he looked into the birdhouselike he was looking through a telescope

at some black star—some animalin our chests looking out onto a world of asphalt

grids and tract houses and not believingwe belonged there, wondering when

we would leave and find anything else.All eyes and legs and waiting out the rain.