Pasha Satara

Rookie (Hagerstown, Maryland)

An Indiscreet Albeit Unintentional Loss - Poem by Pasha Satara

It's early and the morning hasn't spoken yet. The woman brushes her hair in slow, measured strokes, sleepy hair still breathing last night's dreams. The dreams were vivid, complete with conversation, decor, and, of course, color. She shakes her head to loosen and chase the lingering fragments that have tangled someplace between the brain and the follicles.

Breakfast is an odd concept. Manzanilla olives seem to be the only compromise. The woman tastes the itchy salt in her mouth, bites a round firm flesh, licks at smooth pimiento, and thinks about what she feels. She enjoys feeling; she fully awakens to this burst of awareness she has fed herself. Then, closing her eyes, she waits for the first chirp of a bird to unlock her day.

There! Through the window over her right shoulder sings an early, unexpected robin in exultant tones. An olive and a winged creature have dislodged the day for her. Barefoot, she feels the sting of a winter not yet over, and wonders why the robin hurried to return to this place before it has barely warmed. The furnace clicks on as if to confirm her observation.

Before there was this, there were the bleached bones of a farm behind her father's house. One tree, spread wider than the ocean she had experienced before this time, her eleventh year of life, sheltered these sacred remains of other people's lives. Another morning, hot and great with sun, she walked here in a sleepy haze. This was her thinking place. Partially blinded by sun streaks and patches of wiry neon grass, she was drawn to the pale aqua of a robin's egg the tree had dropped. It was an inadvertent offering from the big tree, which had many arms but no fingers. She used hers to pick up the fragile egg, still intact, somewhat fluid, yet heavy in her palm. But it was the warmth of the egg as much as the color that kept her childish fist rounded, like a nest, as she ran back to her father's house.

This morning, the woman can feel the egg in her hand, although it weighed less than a green olive. She remembers the way she tried to keep the egg warm and how she turned it a quarter of a turn every three hours under the heat of a light bulb. She is the only one who knows how gently she cradled the egg into her soft, worn Elly, a threadbare stuffed elephant she had been using as a pillow since she was three. She waited as patiently as she could, with her tummy all fluttery and excited, to hear a tiny beak chipping at her aqua treasure.

This morning the real robin mothers have come back to roost. The woman knows that she will play no part in this ancient ritual. She has no feathers, no red breast, no flight. She lacks the proper diet, the right temperature, and yes, perhaps even the patience. She has only the desire to nurture and to grow, and she knows it.


Comments about An Indiscreet Albeit Unintentional Loss by Pasha Satara

  • (4/12/2008 9:40:00 PM)


    interesting and touching tale, well drawn and elegantly related. (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Monday, March 31, 2008



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