A. R. Dugan
Waxwing, he said. / Dad said. / At the window. / In the kitchen. / Mom came running. / My spoon hung / in my Cheerios. / He said it with such urgency. / He was not, / is not, an urgent man. / What is a waxwing? / I thought it was some new / monstrous beast that would swallow / dogs and cats alive— / then rise in shadows / up over the window, / the whole house. / The Cheerios orbit my spoon. / I thought it was some machine of war. / Like the one dad went to work to build. Breaching / out of the ocean, breathing fire, / melting everything. The Cedar Waxwing / is not a bird of prey. It is a rare bird / for where I grew up. / Rare enough, it seems, / for dire excitement. / Rare enough to remember. / Wings of wax. Icarus wings. / We were breathing the fire. / We are the monsters. / There is only milk left / in the bowl, the color of melted feathers.
***
A. R. Dugan has an MFA in creative writing from Emerson College and lives in Boston. He reads poetry for Ploughshares. His poetry can be seen or is forthcoming in a number of literary magazines and reviews, most recently Sweet, where his poem “Milk Thistle” was a contest finalist. Finishing Line Press will publish his chapbook, Call / Response, in March. He taught high school English in southeastern Massachusetts for nine years. A. R. currently teaches literature and writing at Emerson College and Wheaton College.