Leyla Çolpan

Swallows to Wake You

do you want to know what language i’m wearing. where birds
used to gather not. calling but admitting you anymore
find them: turned thoroughly. snow
                         in
                         sul
                         ates the
                         tele
                         phone
wires is. woman’s garment. shaping from the signal what
used to be called. in days not anymore. well-remembered but
neither altogether stricken from. the record its. figure. the wires cross-
                         dressing (
                         change
                         of sex regarded in that time as
                         fore
                         ground
                         to prophecy:
                         the
future lifting up its skirt) are turned anymore. to winter
and inside it. payphone. ringing. just-visible inside a snowdrift. your
                         bolting (as
                         of
                         lace)
from the door to catch that when it. wakes you. and no signal
shuttles down the line but. static. your Hello? sidling on white noise: language
                         of your
                         very
                         own
                         ossicles
                         wring
                         ing them
                         selves
                         out. this:
this alone reaches you now. is the booth. the small room you’ve walked not un-
knowingly into was. prefigured. in not (as used to be) the
language. colourful. of birds but in their. silence. as
                         the first
                         head
                         lines were breaking
                         mornings
were already quiet: FLYCATCHERS,
                         SWALLOWS AND
                         WARBLERS
                         ‘FALLING OUT
                         OF THE
                         SKY.’
                         tawny
hail pelts the coasts it used. to be swallows to wake you. would come
home. benign (as in spring) alarm lifting the. figure. of telephone
wires from the wires. anymore is snow
                         blind. anymore
                         you get
                         the
                         ring.
in the booth is static leaving. nothing. to imagination. the pay
phone’s plastic. liver coos into your ear (where you have. imagined
                         instead the
                         lover) and she
                         recites the
                         news.
                         here
                         it all is
                         she tells you:
here. leaving. us—what are we playing at? what’s my role. here. who calls
on payphones anymore. who gives. the sign. everyone can tell
the future. i can give everything. away. am
                         only static
                         figur
                         ing it
                         self
                         for
                         your pleasure. that’s
                         my
                         drone bird voice
                         now. coo
                         ing. head
lines you believed were someone else’s. future. are spinning
in the alley. trodden-on in oil and snow. they are my dress. my night-
                         clothes:
                         take
                         them i say and
                         so you take them.
                         you are
                         coming
                         out
of sleep. so we can at least speak. materially. about the fibers of your
dreams again. your filaments. the firm
                         ament and its
                         many wintering
                         birds: poly
                         carb
                         on
                         ate
                         black
                         lips
flapping incorruptibly (as the bodies of certain female saints) south
toward. the great pacific waste heap. was it my ring
                         ing
                         tore
                         you
from that. Oh the swallows do return! i heard you. say even from
the anymore side. of the line. heard you. inside your bolting
like. you believed the skirts. were lifted
                         your
                         days of pro
                         phe
                         cy
were come again: you could be auspice. avispex. looker
to the birds. eyes bared and. receiving…
                         —do you like it when i call you
                         solo
                         mon?
i ask you as you tug. no future but the. anymore. down the burnt-out wires. you
can call me anything. i can be wearing any sex. you like. for this
                         is your. signal.
                         now
                         was that
                         ossicles or.
                         icicles
                         ? if
                         i’m cutting
                         out.
                         it’s
time. to put another nickel in. the nick of time. which is my
                         nick.
                         my
                         plastic
                         swal
                         low
                         voice curls
up inside your ear is. talking backwards and. are the lips
of prophecy everting. you must recall a place
                         where
                         birds.
                         still
                         fall
instead of snow. where collapse is only just. happening. there’s still time
you. haven’t woken up too late. now. dig
for change. the morning isn’t quiet
                         no
                         is
                         speech
                         less

A line from this poem uses language from a 2020 article in The Guardian, “Birds ‘falling out of the sky’ in mass die-off in south-western US”