but for the subtle movement of its breath,
and my first thought, Ava, was –
I bet that I can touch this bird.
I reached out for it.
It made no indication it would fly away.
But then I stopped,
why?
why do I want to?
And I realised, Ava, that the way that I was looking
at this frozen, frightened bird,
was the way that men
in cars and on the street had looked at me when I was in
my uniform walking home from school –
like I was a succulent pork roast
and their eyes were dry bread rolls
and they were trying to mop-up
all the juices, all the gravy that they could –
and I’d been eyeing it all that way – the houses,
marble flooring, gardens –
bitter, wolfish, hungry –
mop, mop, mop…
Ever watched the sunrise, Ava, from atop a
famous hill and had to share it with a bunch of other
people?
It’s difficult to achieve awe that way.
Bodies jostling for vantage in the not-yet-light,
someone else’s dog snuffling at your legs,
a man with poor volume control explaining
dawn –
no wonder people pay for exclusivity, no
wonder people hoard those places for themselves.
I want a sunrise, Ava, I want her rosy fingers to
myself.
Oh perspective, oh sublimity, oh barbed wire
fence post camera broken glass embedded mortar…
What do I have?
I have you, Ava –
this borrowed box of Artex-lined interior,
a minibus-infested window.
chug chug chug…
