deepundergroundpoetry.com

Shooting Birds

�Katalin shot you a bird, Mrs. Thomas,�
was all scrawny Craig said.

The eyes of every kid in my class
turned, their heads tilted,
some grinning. And she put down her chalk
with a decisive thud on the desk
and turned to look at me.

I was scratching my eye.
That�s what I told Mrs. Thomas,
or I thought I told Mrs. Thomas,
that somehow I had shot a bird
while scratching my eye,
and that�s why Craig had announced
it to the whole world.
(well, the whole class,
but that was the whole world to me.)

�I did not shoot a bird,� I exclaimed,
�I would never do anything to hurt a bird!�
And Mrs. Thomas glared over
her tortoise shell glasses, grimaced,
asking me to stand. With trembling
hands, and wobbling knees,
my plaid skirt swished in the wind
that was coming from the window (and ugh,
those were such ugly uniforms).
Piss yellow trailing over candy apple red
blue-black tracks, weaving in and out of the traffic jam
of colors over the evergreen backdrop of my jumper.

I whimpered, voice squeaking. �I did not
shoot a bird! Mrs. Thomas, I swear!"

And some of the girls gasped
at the shock
that I had sworn,
and Mrs. Thomas
believed that I knew exactly
what she had meant,
and was merely being a smart aleck
to tease her. �I�m going to talk to your mother
after school today.� Sit down. Now.

The bell chimed at 3 pm.

My mother drove up in her big fire truck
(really just a red truck) a fierce giantess,
Amazonian in size, large and proud against
the toothpick-figured, slithery Mrs. Thomas.

She told me to wait in the car.

With two clear marble eyes, rounded and tear-filled,
I wondered what Mrs. Thomas would say about my shooting a bird.
That is something I would
never do. I liked birds. �
She calmly came back and stepped
up into her truck� words of innocence
stuffed between my chubby cheeks. My mother
told me not to worry about it while sticking
her keys in the ignition.

The engine vibrated, as if it was shaking me
for being so stupid. �Mrs. Thomas said you shot her a bird.
I asked her if she saw you do it.�
Spurting, I told her that I did not
and Mama chuckled. �Mrs. Thomas admitted
that she did not. It was Craig
who had pointed
the finger.

Shaking her head, as if in the time with windshield wipers,
calloused hands clutched the steering wheel
the way I had been clutching my heart
when Mrs. Thomas had asked me to stand.

Privately, my mother mocked
Mrs. Thomas for listening
to some dumb kid
making up lies.
I was just scratching my eye.

My mother doesn�t stand for bullshit.
I�m surprised she didn�t shoot Mrs. Thomas
the bird.
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