Ice BIrds

Martin Jago

Winter. An artist carves an ice bird sculpture in our local park. Two days later, when my daughter asks where it’s gone, I say it must have flown away. Then I call you, my friend who keeps her cockatiel in the freezer; who scans her calls to hear the answer machine play, dead bird chirping in the background before the flatline beep—Hello, friend. So, this is grief, which comes at such odd intersections, like rummaging through the freezer, my mother’s face behind the frozen corn, rigid and as cold as I remember, glaring disapproval as I reach for the salve that ice-cream brings.

You once explained how you first became a pet owner, arriving home one day and hearing its lost chirp from an upstairs windowsill. But now it’s dead, can’t you just get rid of it? No, not with grief, you say. So, how’s it ever going to thaw? At the time, putting her on ice was the better choice—coyotes would have dug up a burial—Frozen, she’s as rosy-cheeked as in life. Her twiggy feet catch you every time, reminding you how she once gripped the human perch of your forefinger, same way I held my mother’s hand as a boy.

Tell me, friend, how long before it furs over? How long before grief turns to the hard white lump that reaches out and swallows all, and does the expiration date matter much anymore?

Looking up, a flight of ice birds sets you free.

Martin Jago is a British-American poet. He is the author of the poetry collection, Photofit (Pindrop Press, 2023) and four critically-acclaimed nonfiction books on Shakespeare (Smith & Kraus). He holds a Master's in Creative Writing from the University of Oxford where he was a F.H. Pasby Prize finalist. His poetry and prose have appeared in journals like Agenda, Acumen, The Moth, HCE Review, Naguatuck River Review, Presence, and LIT Magazine among others.