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I deafened the moon out of orbit when I perched by your door, so I could only figure the shadow of Stitch on your coconut fibre mat. It was 1 am, the world had shifted to tomorrow, and I had no bars- so I pecked.
Your musk met me before you did- Summer holds both time & air still.
Then you showed me your pits… Your eyes half closed with a mischief that encouraged the moon to wax once more.
I asked you to repeat, and you repeated with broken gaps- I felt dishonest for not listening to all those songs you told me to listen to. It took me three nights to tell you that I can’t hear well. They think human is my second language, so they usually repeat slower, until I let them know.
It was not long that the aviary had more birds step in- some stayed for a night, some longer. I wondered if it is another kind of human that I can’t speak. My parrots taught me how to love as a kid- they mistook my teeth for nuts, and I’d play pretend at the dentist.
I started shaving my beak off like an eagle in distress. I tried to figure if you shared a peck with him at the corner of my eye. I had felt his longing when we touched.
I thought, he continues changing himself to sustain a love- he is young. So I pulled my feathers out for his plume- it was the just thing to do.
There are those greater than eagles, in our folktales, after all. The Simorgh and the Garud.
When wind showed up- I spent Two weeks alone with you through the storm. Two weeks alone, despite having you with me. I taped the windows in. I could not tell between rain nor tear just by the shuddering of ribs. The cyclone turned out hollowing and disappointing.
The first few times, I covered my ears with plugs- they were not enough. Scabs made it hard to use them after a while, so I drained my face instead. Nothing I could do could keep the floorboards from buckling with second hand orgasm- I could sense its curvatures pulse underneath me.
I don’t know if I ever had the melody right- I could only tell by the tensing of my voice box-cage. Maybe Now I’ve turned tone-deaf as well.
Maybe I should fly away after having kicked away our future like the Koel kicks out pigeon eggs. It wasn’t elegant, it wasn’t melodic. It wasn’t tone-deafness; I just sing in quarter notes, ululate across tenses- since before our new year- like the goddess at the end of time.
Maybe you could remember me in what you call rain, when it comes and goes- and maybe somewhere, I misperceive a splatter as your call to me through static. I might hear your words clearer in distance and deafness.
Written by Ari Deshpande Irani
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