At our July show Fragile, Sam Spieller shared with us their poem, "Mirrored", titled in reflection of the exhibition theme. Sam Spieller is a local Portland writer and editor, having studied at University of California, Davis, and Boston University. They also cohost a weekly podcast about the encompassing genre of fiction, called Canonical. You can listen anywhere that podcasts are streamed.
"Mirrored"
By Sam Spieller
The thud interrupting the morning
Calm and cold even for winter.
Outside, before the glass,
The limp form of a bird,
Throat sequined, its heart
Beating a thousand an instant.
The world’s smallest drum.
I held it—not sure
What else to do,
As a young boy—
Stroked its head,
And waited.
Then I gave up.
But it didn’t.
Its eyes eased open,
Widened, blinked, and
As my hands loosened,
The sounds of the Earth
Returning to that frozen moment,
The drum quickened.
I blinked too,
And each remex flexed,
One thrust and it was off, The plume gone,
My palms trying to keep
The memory from fading.
What elation!
Over years, I selfishly hoped,
Pined to witness that
Rebirth again,
Even in light of pain.
I grew almost desperate
To feel that surge of passion,
The heat of my blood
An incubator.
To save, to rescue,
To return to sky
What meant not a final fall.
They did not all survive.
Some, their oily prints still
The only blemish on the mirrored sky,
Could not overcome gravity,
Inertia.
Severed spines,
Specks of blood and spit
Spotting the lore
And supercilium.
A hummingbird,
Its tongue trying to taste
An invisible flower.
The sparrow’s legs like antennae,
Catching no signal.
They found permanent residence
In the garden,
In memory.
A collection of doomed beauty.
Once, as I cradled
The latest patient,
You said,
“You’re setting yourself up for failure.”
I looked up to find you,
But you were obscured
By the glare
And reflection.
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