The Tattooist

by Thomas Schwank

I saw him in time
quivering
one unbroken leg middle of the street
black yellow eye stoning me
like a child’s telescope
fixed to one spot waiting for a soul to show up
I thought about how I was
gonna be late for work
and drove around the bird
Then I quickly made the block to move it out the street
It had just gotten smashed
only once
its feathers still soft and airy
body not that flat
half a wing untouched
the fingers brilliant
plumed in the greys of dignity
shifting and peeling in the breeze of traffic
The face was the same except the hair
now sticking up like a baby’s
the head rocking slightly
like a broken toy

Every year when the night herons reproduce
in the branches over this busy street
babies maturing for months into juveniles
laughing like a tree coming down
some fall into the street
and get run over hundreds and hundreds of times
looking like a mixed media piece
splatter of dark paint
feathers made tar
soundtrack of tires
exhaust smell
the beak and claws and bones
visible only as lines
a fossil made in an afternoon

The tattooist I was telling this story to
realized it was finally over and after a pause asked
Did you get to work on time?
No I said
He nodded
He said
I think I understand how you’d like me to do it