Cantata

some laughed, some wept,
most stayed silent.
i must hold my posture,
face the onlookers with steady eyes.
many hide behind their newspapers,
a few pull out handkerchiefs.
i lock my stance, toes gripping the ground.
a boy with a black bag stares, unblinking—
i almost dropped the bird.
from my chest / a crimson bird emerges / we are told not to guess its flight / not to glance
outside the window / some grown-ups said / it would cross the forest / others declared it dead
already/
the scent of a dying dog,
the decay of the abandoned old
speeds up in the air.
a face leans close,
calling a handkerchief a rope.
surely, they’ve stashed blue cherries
inside a wardrobe.
even when i close my eyes,
the sun refuses to set,
the night does not arrive.
a boy whispers to a boy:
it’s not the stillness that makes a frame.
black ankles / pass by one after another / their necks keep breaking / or they limp on one leg /
a woman releases the bird from her chest / most wings are torn / some pinned to harpoons /
the birds peck themselves raw / eyes reddened  & never return once they’ve flown / there are
birds that only vanish fully / when they die /
even stillness doesn’t make everything a frame,
the boy says, painting the bird’s wings red.
it flares into fire,
shifting its toes.
some laughed,
some wept.
most stayed silent.