Red Bird, 1964
I’ve only seen a dead bird up close once. It wasn’t red butblue. I named it before I buried it. My childfound a few sticks so weand dropped the bird in, along with a few flowers we hadplucked. We didn’t touch the bird with our bare hands,in case death was contagious. When I put the cross intothe ground, I felt that Nietzsche was wrong. Happinessisn’t the feeling when power increases. The lake isn’t amarketplace. The small pencil marks on the painting aren’tmeasuring anything. Seeing the dead bird up close only mademe want to cover it, not sell its feelings. I am far away fromit, in another house, but I still have the baby bird’s feelingsin a small box. Each spring, I can’t see the baby birds inthe rafters that, when hungry, sound like death. All thesemonths, I thought they were birds, but it turns out they werereally rats. And the feelings in the small box were my own.
