proprioception

by Matthew Herskovitz

I learned today to tell an oriole

by the black on its beak, that arrowhead,

instead of any kind of orange chest

caged by black. Sat, rain treeing down, I told

what I now know to be a robin — oiled

head, yellow beak — how I can move my legs

without thinking. Rain came down through the leaves,

and she laughed birdsound, ruffled, stared at me,

drowned iris. Do you understand me? 

Rainwater poured into my lap. Wing flap. She

knew how I moved. Her head twitched, and grass blades

grew break heavy, darker green, whistled wind

when they smacked each other. She called this play,

jumped in the puddle, rainwater singing.

Matthew Herskovitz is a poet from Baltimore, Maryland. He is currently a senior studying English at the University of Maryland, College Park with plans to pursue an MFA in poetry in the fall. His works have been published in Red Lemon Review, Stylus, and Laurel Moon. He has upcoming work in The Shore.