Nothing was more beautiful in Hitchcock’s
ornithology — than his blonde haired, green silk heron.
The film’s sophisticate. A fisher of fine things and solutions
to her fountainous boredom. Her naked dip in Rome
Off-screen, she was more like the mina bird
her character had ordered at the San Francisco pet shop. Poised
to listen and emulate what he admired most
in worldly cuisine and style. The perfect tilt
of chin or heel.
Off-guard, she entered an attic
not far from Bodega Bay, the one at the top of her head
where the roof was slowly ripping apart. Tolerance torn
by those habits she couldn’t diffuse. His shadow
always hovering over her whereabouts, his covetous stare
pecking at her body. And there between her temples,
(the bone marks of her grace), a migraine
kept quoting his name.
Wendy Howe is an English teacher and freelance writer who lives in Southern California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, diverse landscapes and ancient cultures. Over the years, she has been published in an assortment of journals both on-line and in print. Among them: The Linnet’s Wings, Ariadne’s Thread, Mirror Dance, Strange Horizons, Niteblade, Goblin Fruit, Mythic Delirium, Scheherezade’s Bequest, and Yellow Medicine Review. Some of her latest work will be forthcoming in Witches & Pagans Magazine, Sage Woman and Poetry Pacific.
Artwork: The Birds, movie poster, public domain