cuckoo prose

i watch a crow on my balcony like a shy romeo, squinting at me nervously over its shoulder. i leave to grab a couple of groceries, then as i hear the deafening roar of the street-cleaning truck, my eyes fall on a beautiful, dead bird. So fresh. Cuckoo, I later learn - they’re shy, so i know its song but not its shape.

immediately i know that this being, that was not there and not dead 1min ago, has literally appeared on my doorstep for me to take its wings and tail. for a moment i’m paralyzed at this. my many plans for the morning come crashing down in the telltale rhythm of death taking over the tempo - interrupt, pause, stretch… 

i pick up the beauty and its eyes are bright, its head lolls like a sleeping child. i can’t leave such a treasure in the glaring daylight of a dirty neukoelln sidewalk. i carry it home and sit with it for a while, dazed. “when death arrives, do nothing. just be in its presence”. i feel an incredible heart connection binding our chests as its spirit flutters, crackling up and down its discarded home, still rife with energy and pouring into me bird secrets that only the bird in me understands. it feels overwhelming, from this quiet and voidy window, to inititate something so sacred and new - but no one close turns up to help, i’m nervous at the pace of decomposing and go get the boxes, salt and a huge armful of lilies and white mourning flowers that cheer me up with their flamboyance and perfume. i feel ready. it’s like i haven’t been able to properly breathe since i saw it, and now i beat away the flies and snap off the shoulder blades, surprisingly easy - i was so repulsed at the idea of touching this masterpiece, but reality is more simple. it says yes, take. like this. every minute i watch the lifeforce wane and disperse, in vivid echo of that time i ate the liver of a freshly slaughtered goat, and the crackling electricity slowly dimmed till it became simple meat on the tongue, as the vibrance of life left. every second is motion. death is so good at reminding me. look the eyes have now sunk in the head, it feels truly dead as opposed to hovering surprised on this side of life, as if it might flicker back any moment. the wings were closing with microscopic speed, folding up - the body without them is not shocking as i’d expected, it looks light, perhaps something about a gift offered and received. i take cuckoo with me to the Feld, and wander into a cemetery i never noticed before, until i find the place - st john’s wort brightly points to the tiny evergreen where i leave it to the flies’ eager welcome. here - new friends. when i rise again i take the first full breath since finding it, and know it is complete. i had been looking earlier at a ceremonial gown, wondering when i would ever have an occasion to wear such a thing. it felt appropriate for the solemn joy of this moment. I lie a little further under the apple trees and write a poem, then go home and deep clean the whole house, while a friend on the other side of the world tells me she also had a dead bird in her house not 4 days ago. a wing will go to the one who told me yesterday she was collecting feathers for a fan. i end the day feeling so utterly connected to everything, held in divine rhythm, and honored.