If You Insist on Reading the Signs, that Bird You Were Is Dead, Girl
Becca Klaver | Poetry
On the coldest morning in decades,
Valentine’s Day weekend, I found
the sparrow, round and dead,
between door and metal gate
after rushing down three flights
to let in the first guest, who helped
with the sliding of the cardboard
and the dropping in the trash.
Eleven more women arrived at my door,
climbing up the stairs to read the tarot.
Clanking and hissing, hot air
rose through pipes to greet us
sitting cross-legged in pairs,
pulling cards. Soon, word came:
The chief justice had died.
(Who pulled the Hierophant?)
Alone again, late afternoon, I consulted
every oracle, seeking symbol or story
to explain the twin deaths,
the thirteen divining women,
but nothing quite fit. I had to admit
that it was winter all over again
and that sometimes things were
just themselves, not stand-ins for
something else. The sun went down fast.
My breath fogged the mirror. I could see
the question was no longer why
the women, the judge, the sparrow
but, after summoning such visitors,
how and where and who was I.
Becca Klaver is a writer, teacher, editor, scholar, and literary collaboration conjurer. She is the author of the poetry collections LA Liminal (Kore Press, 2010), Empire Wasted (Bloof Books, 2016), and Ready for the World (Black Lawrence Press, 2020), as well as several chapbooks. Midwinter Constellation, a book co-written with 31 other poets in homage to Bernadette Mayer’s Midwinter Day, was published in 2022. As an editor, she co-founded Switchback Books, is currently co-editing the anthology Electric Gurlesque (Saturnalia Books), and has created pop-up projects such as Women Poets Wearing Sweatpants and Across the Social Distances. She lives in Iowa City, where she works as Program Manager of the Iowa Summer Writing Festival.