By Eloise Schultz
A flock of starlings is pulling up the neighbor’s
grass and when they take off suddenly I see a
cardinal has landed in their midst. I laugh because
you loved cardinals and hated starlings, once
threatened to shoot them from the porch with your
pellet gun – which is funny, a blind man shooting
birds in a residential area being such a symbol for
America. All of the starlings in America descend
from a flock released in Central Park by a group of
literary enthusiasts who wanted to populate the
continent with all the birds mentioned by
Shakespeare. You told me this last year, right after
the gun bit, as if to say: Poets, man. What are you
good for? You cursed the starlings but built
birdhouses. Skylarked the cops but brought them
doughnuts after every wellness check. I miss every
part of you, even your bullshit. And this, too, is
funnier now that you’re dead.
Eloise Schultz (she/her) lives on an island in Maine. Her writing has recently been featured in $ – Poetry is Currency, Bodega, and HAD. Her first chapbook is forthcoming from Alternating Current Press. Find her at eloiseschultz.com.
