Early Birds

Machino sleeps with Machina. Machina sleeps with Machino. Machino sleeps with change in his pockets. Machina sleeps in a threadbare gown.

The parceled conversation of sleep forecasts the impossible—the unknown—until a bird twitters through. No dream, no projection, just the sound of a humble bird. Far before the rising sun, just one—it’s a wonder we don’t dream of more of them.

Anyhow, it’s Machino’s big day.

The triage begins: birds sitting on a wire: two, three. In settled darkness. Now four. Holy six flaps in a crashing triangle above high love. Five, now shooting for the sterns—the frowny jobs get into their cars, park, walk. Seven cuts mindless over domains, kingdoms, phylums, classes, orders, families, species, like light. Machino and Machina still sleeping. 

The alarm goes off near eight.

Machino swivels from the mattress. Stands in the shower. Machina orders herself to sleep, but decides she won’t; it’s Machino’s big day. She tilts the faux-venetian blinds and parts the curtains. Brick building. Pulls a T-shirt over her breasts. Puts out the café. Machino stamps down the stairs. Yesterday's change rattles in his pocket. Leaves tumble toward the street. Machino hustles around the corner as Machina watches.

Machino will get the job today for showing up first—then windex the windows, mop the floors, sanitize, dust, and take out the garbage. Sanitize again. Over lunch, Machina will look at pictures in a magazine. She goes to bed listening to her tapes and wakes up frozen—a chain rattles beside her. It’s almost midnight. She closes her eyes. A song sings from the center. Machino fitfully dreaming beside her.