Academic journal article Chicago Review

Iron Door Knocker the Shape of a Man's Face, by Feetham

Academic journal article Chicago Review

Iron Door Knocker the Shape of a Man's Face, by Feetham

Article excerpt

Has no fly laid a sac of eggs

in the wet hole in the house finch

dead on the back porch

a week, ten days, not even

the eyes missing, sometimes

I sit by it and read, its March,

there is fatness to the air, walking

to the bus, back from the bus, I

miss the confidence

swift burial of the dead

gives us. I used to believe the wild

takes care of itself. I used to believe

maggots arise

like a spring of death

that need only be tapped,

but the flow of incarnation

is much too slow and nothing

comes to debride the flesh

so that my finch

can matriculate into the hall

of its next house

the door of which

is guarded.

You've seen door knockers

with the faces of men. In the novel,

the face warms to your approach,

but it's so few of us who can even

get our body all the way through the cold negative space

of an unstrung tennis racket

we're holding. Pilloried in a past life,

who joins us

here in this awful heat

clinging to the screen

door? …

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