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Freshly Rooted by Emily Wall

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Calling

Wall, Emily

A young man runs down the street,
clapping, calling to something I can’t see—
a dog I presume, from his manner—

but it turns out, when it lifts, to be
a pigeon.  This act, outside the Glory Hole,
raises a flock of questions, none of which

will be answered by me,
across the street in Heritage
drinking coffee, listening to jazz. 

But I do know that desire, the craving
to touch a bird rising in flight, the ache
of those of us without pets, children,

small beings that belong to us,
and don’t belong, a heartbeat and a
string of feathers we send out, we reel

back in, we touch with just these hands.


Copyright © Emily Wall 2007

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