Transcript

I’m Maggie Smith and this is The Slowdown.

One thing I love about poems is how they give us the opportunity to take our time, to dial in, to look and listen closely. Not everything screams to be noticed. Some things barely whisper! Or they might just squawk or coo now and then.

Today’s poem is a celebration of creatures we tend to overlook or even disdain. It invites us to reconsider our perspective.

I Find Myself Defending Pigeons
by Keith S. Wilson

I love  how you never find their bodies,  how they  never rest their eyes.  I love how  their breasts are comforters 
unfolding  by  their  breath.  I  love  that  pigeons live  in  the city,  that  underestimation  never stopped a pigeon 
from  unlatching  itself  or  being  old.  I  want them  all unspooling  in the air,  and  bridges  that are  half sigh and 
half pigeon.  I  want  to harbor  their  coo  and  utilize  it  for energy.  I  want  to  learn  to  use  them  the  way  they 
want  to be  used.  I want  to pigeontail  into  a quiet night,  to let their  oddness sit  in our hands.  You  can never 
know a language until you quiet  your  own.  I  want  people  to  write  about  them.  Their  leaving  ships  for  land, 
or standing  on  their own  on a  marble  statue  in  the shimmer  of  a  field.  I  want  to  talk  about  the  term  rock 
dove,  argue over whether  or not it's imperialist.  I want  the media to implicate us  in the pigeon problem,  for  a 
couple  to sit  with  their  asparagus and  kids  and  realize  none of  this  is  far  from them,  whatever  we  think.  I 
want  oils  and  watercolors  and  inks. I want  still  life  with  pigeons,  since  not a  one has  ever  been  portrayed 
with a soul:  a flight of them around  old bread.  And  how  they're  all the same.  How  all  the  world is  here  with 
them in hate, since they are rats adorned with angel wings, and the children down the street are free to chase 
their drag: they want to see a pigeon's rouge entirely.  Let the pigeon have her pigment.  Consider the pigeon's 
brown and green and everything,  the brandishing of his nakedness to the sun,  as if nothing is absolute.  I love 
the pigeons' shoulders, tongues, and wedding nights. I love the pigeon's place in history,  their obsession with 
living   in  the  letters  of  our  signs.   I  love  their  minds,  or   what  I've  come  to  believe  is  their  theology.  Who 
knows?  Let the pigeons speak.  Ask the  closest pigeon for his number,  for her middle name,  if they are ready 
to die,  if  the sky gets crowded enough  to  consider war,  if  their stores  are  closed  on  Sundays.  I want  to be 
ready f or them  to be  just like us,  but more  ready for them  to  be completely different.  I  don't want  to waste 
any   time   tracing  a   pigeon's  god  to   Abraham.   I   want  to   get  started.   Some  of  us  feed   pigeons.   I  love, 
sometimes, our care.  I love,  I think,  the  park bench.  I love apples,  but I do not  love pears.  The weather. I  love 
the pigeons, the revolution of wheel to sky. I love the newspaper graying in a different air.

“I Find Myself Defending Pigeons" by Keith S. Wilson from FIELD NOTES ON ORDINARY LOVE © 2019 Keith S. Wilson. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.