Bird Calls

by Henry Farnan

It’s me again.
Guess who didn’t sleep last night.
That’s a lie. I slept for two hours.
The bird in the tree 
over the road wouldn’t shut up. 
I had to close my window. 
Trapped the breeze outside 
so the smell of roasted skin just
festered in my room. 

There’s a definitive line
between my belly button and my pubic hair.
It runs all the way around my waist
like I’ve been picked up by the legs
and dipped headfirst in hot pink paint.
It happened yesterday.
I drove a friend up to Pinnaroo Point
and we stood in the waves for hours.
Just talking.

When the bird woke me up
at 3:47 this morning, 
I stretched across my bed to check my phone. 
My red shoulders strained 
like trying to rip a hole in cling-wrap
and the phone light purpled me.
My almost-boyfriend had messaged,
crying. Thinking 
he’s probably gonna get kicked out 
when he comes out.
I replied.
The night stayed hot but I wasn’t sweating.
It was a dry heat. Tightened my wrists
and made my lips bleed.
That bird still won’t shut the fuck up.

Henry is currently a student at Curtin University undertaking a Bachelor of Arts. Previously, his short story, 'Take Us Home', was published in Coze #3. His poem, 'The Under-Breaths' is forthcoming in Concrete Queers #15 and his short story, 'The Worship of Mrs Aylett's Son', is forthcoming in Coze #4.