“Waxwings” by Anna’Le Hornak (written for AGON in Spring 2013)

my ears found music on the radio last night, around ten; there was this song (thick with nostalgia

and the scent of apple pie) played just for me. I forgot the words, but I was singing along

and my voice melted into radio static and broken speakers that still crackle all tinny and harsh

and it brought me back to her paint-stained braids like flat brushes or the feathers of a waxwing, primaries extended and coverts ruffled, flying

on rubber swings with sneakers nudging clouds and wood chips reminding us that there was ground to land on.

I remembered her hands, how cold they were against my cheek; I remembered her eyebrows and their worried slant, two hyphens inked in blue over sleeping eyes.

It brought me back to my ringing phone, singing stolen melodies, and it brought me back to the ringing phone as it shattered against highway ground.

I sang that song until dawn tapped my shoulder (slumped), and I looked out the window at a waxwing, warbling bluegrass and Dixie dust while I read the morning paper and sang the morning blues.