I called to the Steller’s jay
rooting for seeds in my shabby garden,
but he didn’t answer; he
just kept flittering hither and thither,
loudly shacking his territory with
a harsh “SHACK-Sheck-sheck-sheck-sheck!”
sifting the choicest bits
ahead of the luckless wrens and finches.
I didn’t think he was listening,
but I couldn’t help myself.
I asked him if it was true
that in order to love another,
you must love yourself first,
for I observed that I’ve loved some
like my life was forfeit, and yet others
forced love from lungs in violent spasms,
spilling onto pages and surfaces,
surging to fill every crevice and valley.
I’ve loved tenderly and scandalously,
I’ve loved dutifully and illicitly,
I’ve withheld from others
and denied myself the respite
and believed fatted luxurious lies in real-time
to preserve rotted acorns of truths long gone,
often hating both who I was, am,
and whatever I have become,
and so I asked him, am I doing it right?
I didn’t wait for his answer,
because he’s just a dumb, greedy bird
hording the good seeds for himself.
The Steller’s jay stopped flittering,
made a loud “skreeka!”
looked me in the eye
and said, “That’s the stupidest thing
I ever heard! Love don’t work that way!
Maybe you’re just too dumb for love!”
I read somewhere that Steller’s jays
often mimic birds of prey
to fool rivals into hiding.