Kristin Naca - Bird Eating Bird: Poems (National Poetry Series)

Thanks to many professors and writing teachers who responded to my work with generosity. Special thanks goes to my committee members at University of Pittsburgh and University of Nebraska. For their wisdom and unflinching belief, thank you, Sandra Cisneros and Hilda Raz. To my friends who wore down their fingernails against my drafts: Dina Rhoden, Nancy Krygowski, Heather Green, Mathias Svalina, Jehanne Dubrow, Lois Williams, Jan Beatty, Ellen Placey Wadey, Jeff Oaks, Chingbee Cruz, Renato Rosaldo, Diana Delgado, Marcia Ochoa, Nick Carb, Eileen Tabios, Hadara Bar-Nadav, and Chuck Rybak. For all their timely advice: John Marshall and Christine Deavel of Open Books. Thank you, Joy, for your horses.

Special thanks to Mara L. Lorenzo, at University of Nebraska, whose generous feedback and encouragement made my writing poems in Spanish possible. Thanks to Hedgebrook, and UN-L, for providing fellowships and time to write. Thanks to my colleagues at Macalester College. Thanks to painter Heather Hagle for her friendship and vision. And thanks to the National Poetry Series for the support of my work, Michael Signorelli at Harper Perennial for his enthusiasm, Yusef Komunyakaa, and everyone at MTV for giving me My Shot with Yusef Komunyakaa.

These poems originally appeared in the following venues: 5AM : While Watching Dallas, My Auntie Grooms Me for Work at the Massage Parlor THE ASIAN PACIFIC AMERICAN JOURNAL : Grocery Shopping with my Girlfriend Who Is Not Asian THE CINCINNATI REVIEW : Heart Like a Clock CRAB ORCHARD REVIEW : Uses for Spanish in Pittsburgh HARPUR PALATE : Baptism, In the Time of the Caterpillars INDIANA REVIEW: Todava no, Not Yet THE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW: What I Dont Tell My Children about the Philippines OCHO: THE MiPOesias PRINT JOURNAL COMPANION : Speaking English Is Like, Glove, Adoration at El Montan PINOY POETICS: A COLLECTION OF AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL ESSAYS ON FILIPINO AND FILIPINO AMERICAN POETICS : Language Poetry / Grandmas English OCTOPUS : House PRAIRIE SCHOONER : Ode to Glass, One Foot, Las Meninas / The Maids of Honor, Rear Window, Witness RIO GRANDE REVIEW: Speaking Spanish Goes Like This RIO GRANDE REVIEW ONLINE: Catching Cardinals

Tawny red curtains hamstrung in the quick, morning light. Her body oils like sage in a shirt, in the bed sheets. Pigeons on a line and in the gutters. The staple that misfires and jams the hammer. The tender, black wick at the top of a candles waxy lip. The lonely woman secretly dying her curtains red at the Laundry Factory.

The purple and purple-blue berry sacks tethered to a blackberry rind. Branches lolled by the weight of voluminous, tender sacks. The path along the lake lit up with the pitch of purple stars. Mouthfuls of lavender at the height of August. Her lips, red gathering in the creases when she puckers. Endings that are dirty tricks and also feathers.

Red water out the pipes, teeming from the rusty gutters. The curtain flicker in the leafy, August breeze. The ghostly cu-cu echoing through the purple night, under stars.

Todava no, no hay palabras para hacer capas de piel sobre la primavera. El color verde se difumina sin leaves. El nico pjaro que aterriza all es el halcn. En el espejo, el reflejo de su pelo es castaas labradas. Las venas de la cala estn labradas con paredes. No, piedras.

No, prdidas. Mientras tanto, tus manos estn hechas de nudillos y hechas de piel. En la ventana, el cristal se superpone al rbol desnudo afuera. Sin fingernails, solamente clavos. Los dedos-garras. Los dedos-lanzas, dice ella.

La ropa en la cama est limpia y suelta. La mujer en la cama espera no morir mientras duerme despiertadespierta. El halcn la aguada en el rbol desnudo, ms all de la ventana, ms all de los muros. La cancin del pjaro superpone a la noche despejada, la deja despierta. Todava no, todas las canciones que canta, le da de comer al halcn.

Whats there but bare branches and some bark. No words for putting layers of skin on spring yet. Green glows loose without its leaves. The only bird that lands there is the falcon. In the mirror, the reflection of her hair is carved chestnuts. The veins of the creek encrusted with walls.

No, stones. No, losing. Meanwhile your hands are made of knuckles and made of skin. In the window, glass overlaps the naked tree outside. No fingernails, just the nails. Finger-claws.

Finger-swords, she says. The laundry on the bed is clean and limp. The woman in her bed hopes she doesnt die in her sleep wake upwake up. The falcon waits for her in the naked tree, beyond the window, beyond the walls. The small birds song overlaps the clear night, keeps her from her sleep. Still, every song he sings, hes food for the falcon.

Every night she waits, shes food for death.