In Memory of Birdperson | William Bonfiglio
Fucking Tammy, I write her
because this is what friends do:
they leave messages without
subject or context, assured their
meaning will be derived despite
time and distance. They
anticipate recognition,
approval, and agreement.
But she writes, I’m sorry, what?
It’s nothing, really – a reference to
a show we watched as friends,
delighted by the boy’s every
hapless stammer, the grandfather’s
every belch, their madcap
adventures attended by a charming
cast of aliens and mutants.
What has changed: We’re older. I
don’t know who Michael is. She
doesn’t know Harry was put down.
I don’t know if she went home to
Arkansas this summer. She doesn’t
know I applied there today.
But we both remember – I’m sure, I’m
certain – the mutant we loved most:
the wise, inexpressive friend whose
brow lifted only as he reached for her,
as her weapon carved through and
pushed him over the woven wicker
sides of his nest to the ground where
he lay cawing, twitching. I mourn him.
About the Author:
William Bonfiglio’s poetry has been awarded a Pearl Hogrefe Grant in Creative Writing Recognition Award, the Julia Fonville Smithson Memorial Prize, and has appeared in Gulf Coast, New Letters, PRISM international, and elsewhere.