Like We just met

A man did a cartwheel in my backyard. The fence around the pool disappeared. I saw his neck break against the concrete. I watched from the window as he lay still. His son was at my sister’s birthday party. I do not know this man. A bird flew over his head. It was left behind from the rest. The others formed a perfect ‘V’ as they migrated. I saw him land in a tree. He stayed as the paramedics came. I watched the bird. The bird watched the man. The man watched me. I could feel his eyes staring into me. They weren’t. They were empty. They were dead. They bore holes through my skin, but at least I was protected by the glass. The bird hit the window. I watched as it bounced off the glass and the roof, until it hit its final resting place, the concrete next to the man. The blood of the bird commingled with the blood of the man. It seeped together into one. They became one. The man sprouted wings and flew away. I watched from the window as he went higher and higher. He flew straight towards the sun. He was Icarus. Was. First, the feathers fell. Then he came down. Again, he smacked against the concrete. In the same position as before, he laid still. The paramedics continued to work like nothing ever happened. The bird made it into the ‘V’ with the rest, ready to migrate. A man did a cartwheel in my backyard.

About the Author

Joanna Hunsinger is a second-year creative writing student and a transfer from UArts. She loves writing poetry and about love in all forms.