The Hunger Diaries

We hear the wheezing at the same time.
            And look up, I from my bench in Hyde Park,
my fourteen-year-old son from his spot
            of dirt, feeding pigeons. A woman in training
strides toward us. Correction, glides between
            wheezes. She has aluminum ski poles, but no skis.

My son’s bird-catching technique—kneel
            with bread, as if praying, clap his hands, and hope
a pigeon appears between them—fails every time.
            He wants to color code their legs with tape:
Trafalgar Square, red; Hyde park, yellow;
            Covent Gardens, blue. He wants to create

his own ship of fools—a cabbie pigeon,
            shopkeeper pigeons, rock star pigeons, a chef
or two, with himself as mayor. If I catch
            the same one twice, it will be like sending a message
to myself. The wheezing draws closer, accompanied
            by wrap-around goggles and a bulky frame pack.
“Got one,” my son says. To my wonder
            he does. He holds the pigeon casually, like a kid
with a stuffed bunny, and joins me on the bench.
            “I was doing it wrong,” he says. “Now I trap
them with one hand.” Vermin, rats with wings,
            some Londoners call them, but up close—

beautiful in their battered oiliness. This one anyway,
            pink and green feathers iridescing like jewels.
It cocks its head and stares. When did I become
            a father who says no? No, pigeons are far too hard
to catch. No, tagging hurts them. No, you’ll never
            catch the same one twice. And here sits my son,

holding Yes in his hand. Sister Goggles smiles,
            at least her teeth smile, and I nod a greeting.
She poles the trail, as if dragging a metaphysical
            burden. Scratch that—a pair of car tires.
Judging from their size, a touring sedan and a Cooper
            Mini. They cut a swath that erases her tracks.
Is this what it takes to make peace with the body?
            A son borrowing wings from the sky, a woman
dragging unmatched spares? I stare at the pigeon,
            left foot and toes perfect, the right a fleshy club
foot. The pigeon does not think, I am missing
            four toes. The fingers do not announce, We hold

feathered quickness against the palm. The car tire
            does not say, I wish I were driving the Autobahn.
“Here,” my son says, “you release it. I can catch them
            easy now.” I take the bird, no bigger than my heart,
and fling it two-handed into the air. Like a stone
            it arcs toward the pond until its wings remember.

Lance Larsen is the author of three collections of poetry: Erasable Walls (1998), In All Their Animal Brilliance (2005), and Backyard Alchemy (2008), the last two from University of Tampa Press. His poems have appeared in many literary journals, including the Kenyon Review, New Republic, the Paris Review, and the Southern Review. He teaches at Brigham Young University and has won a number of grants and awards, including a Pushcart Prize and a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts.

“The Hunger Diaries” appears in our Winter 2008 issue.