Poetry By Janelle Victoria
Birds in My Throat
What’s meant for me? I walk the dirt road with my mother, past the pond with ducks and
coots and geese churning the water, cows standing at the shallow edges trying to stay
cool in the heat. Past the wild rose bushes, bright green swaths of farmland, hilltop
houses with metal roofs and chicken coops in the backyard. My mother says she walked
to the hospital on the day my brother was born because she had an appointment. Any
time now, the doctor said, and sent her home. She was back four hours later with labor
pains. She worked until the day I was born, teaching business classes to single moms,
high school students and recovering addicts at the community college. Even so, she only
took a few weeks off afterwards, eager to return to that world where she could lift a
finger to her lips and the whole room would go quiet, waiting for her to speak. I want to
ask if she’s ever miscarried, but I have a feeling the answer is no. Mom, I want to say,
I’m worried about everything. But there are birds in my throat, white doves, so I say
nothing.
Hastings Road, 8 AM
A man in jeans, a black canvas jacket
and knit cap kneels on the sidewalk
hugging a small boy. The man’s back
is to the road and all I can see of the boy
is his face, his closed eyes, the pale moons
of his cheeks. I watch them in my rearview
mirror until they’re out of sight, and I like
to think they go on holding each other all
day as the sun follows its low winter arc
through the sky, as prongs of frost melt
on the grass and grow back again in the evening.
I can’t explain why their tenderness is important
to me. But I take a different route home from
work, not ready to be disappointed by
the empty sidewalk, by how they’ve let go,
how they’ve moved on.
