Читать книгу Dangerous Goods - Sean Hill - Страница 16

POSTCARD TO ANNA

for A. Potter

In Cairo I missed street pigeons; they were

not there at the open-air eatery where

I dined with Jasmine off Talaat Harb

when the morsel of macaroni missed

my mouth. I only saw pigeons on menus

and the backseat of a Peugeot in and atop

a sturdy-looking wooden cage because

the cage door was open. There were

no sparrows to clean up my mess either.

We found them on a menu a few days

later. The waiter hesitated, then translated

the Arabic for our table, and we said Yes,

we want sparrows. The hesitation at bones

holding up, resisting the jaw, my maw,

those bones for tendons to bind muscles

to and help buoy that tiny body above

the flow of folk with their sedentary

urban tendencies, a mouthful that came

with a people stopping by this river,

edged with papyrus that they beat flat

and dried brown to leave notes for each

other. They were delicious, those sparrows,

in their port wine sauce.