The Warbler at the Window

by | Aug 10, 2021 | Fiction, Issue Twenty Two

The windows of my sunporch claim at least seven birds a year. I watch a warbler dance in midair, executing a whimsical waltz with its reflection in the glass. Seeing, not seeing.

Then, it’s back to. This. My right hand up. Stop. The man across from me, Corbin—his left hand mirroring mine. Reflection. Our palms touch, and I feel. The force of memory between my legs. Conversations with trees and winged creatures.

Corbin speaks. Of appeasement. Of chemistry. Of love. Carnal wine and mixed drinks. Following, always following. Me. And. Broken-down cars and melting tires. We. A happy blowjob alongside the road. This is what I mean when I sing when I sing.

Proximity. The warbler at the window. Let me in let me in let me.


A whistle, not a scream.

Corbin speaks again. This time of burden. Of breadth. Of baring teeth, putrid carcasses, and the atrocity of taste. Transgressions.

I look away.

It was a long time ago, he says.

I allow my mouth to form the same words: a long time ago. His smile. My smile. Mimicking movement. We are we are we are. It. .tI .era ew era ew era eW

The warbler’s reflection in the glass as the waltz continues. We dance carelessly, contained within the clouds. Round and round.

Do you see? Corbin asks.

I’ve seen suggestions online. Decals to prevent collisions. Screens or netting around the windows.

I nod. Yes, I see.

We face each other. When he moves, I move. A chase with our eyes.

Corbin blinks.

I blink, too.

Then, it’s over. A scream, not a whistle.

If the bird doesn’t die from the collision itself, it may suffer from internal bleeding. And then.

And then.


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