by Avery Gregurich
for David Lynch
Daddy and Mommy were dancing in the kitchen, their
wedding picture caught in their clapshold, tearing a little
in between them while they swung. I watched, and after
all night long oscillating, they gave up again. Where I
come from, the birds sing a pretty song and there’s always
music in the air. Next morning, Daddy took his lunch down
into the mine, but missed when the canary brushed his cheek,
him thinking it was a bat. Adjacent the funeral, Mommy and
me bought a bird to learn our new, sad language. It’s best
to buy your standard cage birds in the spring better for them
to be feathered enough for snow. Most die in transit. Keep
them fed on finely chopped meat, a reasonable quantity of
spiders. Let it sharpen its beak on a cuttlefish bone. Now
we finally awaken to a familiar voice after we left the radio
on for a month straight. Our bird sings like Tammy Wynette
and Mommy snaps wildly out of time with its tune. I’m just
so glad that other hands have gone down the shaft again this
morning so that we could sit here amongst this music and stare
hard into the light.
Avery Gregurich is a writer living and working in Marengo, Iowa. He was raised next to the Mississippi River and has never strayed too far from it.