The birds come to my window. To make sure I'm still there, black beaks pecking the glass, three times, like a knock on the door. I move under the covers just to reassure them. Yes, I'm here. This is true, this reassurance of their curiosities, but it is also false. I am gone—my mind a molecule of dust on a Midwestern road, surrounded by tall stalks of corn. An aquamarine convertible idling its engine, a grandfather pulling whiskey from a flask in between chest heaves. His granddaughter, a young woman with attentive eyes following the panting efforts of the family dog chasing a coyote it will never reach, knowing this, pursuing its strange cousin until exhausted. I am the dust aroused in its wake, the dust caking the flask, floating in the whiskey. I am the dust lodged in the eye of the young woman unblinking, resolute, knows where she stands. She reaches into her pocket and brings a bag of dried corn kernels into her extended palm to the birds, whispers in their ears to check on me in my room.
Sam Bloom drops things because he forgets he is holding them and his writing reflects this. His poetry appears in The Squawk Back and the upcoming Perpendicular Play.