Birds of TokyoNicole Steinberg
Never saw the birds before they died, your hands stroking them to calm, the point of your pen a harbinger of science, dismissal. Work is work: you divvy up what remains, coax specimens into cages, fold wings into walls. Without you, sex is panicked, furious rush hour throngs, all business- man beaks and claws. Your secretary calls the ryokan, alarmed, interrupts the sizzle of steak on the grill. You tie the blue knot of your robe; you say Don't call here again until the babies die.
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