Debon Redd Victor
Vail His Son
When distractions become an unchecked box,
we stamp checklists to hide or shove our main goals
that rains heavily and drowns my child.
Store bought distractions clutter into my palms
the other morning as I bleed onto my conscience.
“What are you doing here; the Hairtied glasses boy; he suffocated
himself,” I told myself. “For his son.” Words
twine with lines and creation; they blinded my sight
in a deep vortex of—just kept him distracted
in the corner window, he will be found creating, slow down,
snow melting from his sights. Haiku, all unknowing,
he remains free like wind as curiosity teaches him, babbles
and all. I picture the checked boxes like lemon lime water
or orange chicken when the sauce attacks your throat before the bite.
In the dreams, I gather stories to give life to when I awake.
I give each dream a purpose, to join a family of forgotten, “Does this work—”
I would ask, and upon closing my notes
app, they fade away from light. The reality
breaks through the illusion, as I recall my unchecked boxes
grow into my mind and snap at my freedom.
A bird jumps from the nest, a nest that may as well not existed.
A recent mother finds the crying baby, lost and scared.
A human touch will see the baby never to be loved again.
The human mother does her best to keep the bird alive.
Trying to find a sanctuary for a lost bird,
Too bad no one cares for such a weak animal, only sanctuary available is that for exotics.
Seeked help from a Doctor on campus, a local scientist or whatever he is, I never took his class.
While they talked, the bird that lay in the cup holder of the stroller
Decides this isn’t it.
Decides maybe it can fly away.
Takes one leap and falls straight to the ground.
By then the conversation stops.
Enter the Father who strolls up and sees the mother in stress.
She comes to him to show him the bird that just decided to fly without wings.
He knows nothing can be done, he only knows this bird as dead.
The mother doesn’t cry but she isn’t exactly empty.
She wanted to help; she is known as a healer in her old stomping grounds.
She feels like she failed.
He knows that it was the bird’s choice.
She feels like she could’ve helped.
He knows no one would accept a common bird.
With their own child put to sleep, they go with the bird
To where it’ll lay to rest.
Father grabs a shovel from the shed of his work
Digs a grave, and gently places the bird into the soil of the garden.
At least in death the bird can give life.
Like the cautious people we are
We are wary of these furless creatures
Like an adoptive parent we love them
When they do something cute, we awe
Like the controller of our land we shall not falter
We shall watch and wait for them to stop their sudden movement
We are curious of them for their unpredictable nature
Wondering how their sticks of boom can kill us
We love them for their warm curious eyes
Watching as they nibble on grass
We hate them for their mocking round eyes
Readying our rifles at the sight of them in our garden
We watch them as they steal our land
Put tall rocks on our homes
Killing our elders and kidnapping our young
We see them as the lovable fuckers
The fast boys that are always out of reach
Watching from afar, admiring their cuteness
We see them as little gremlins
The demons who escape our bullets
Must watch from afar to get in a good shot
Killing is in their nature we see
Roaming and killing anything
The beauty of their existence
Roaming free with no limits to their numbers
Truly as beautiful as the land we stay
Disgusting little rats and their damn existence
Breeding to no end of their assault
Protect the land we stay on from these weeds