The Tea Kettle Whistle
The teakettle ejects
wet plumes into
the dark space of the kitchen,
curling slightly
as if to form a cyclone
before a rapid disappearance,
or in daylight invisible,
making your hand wander
over the stop, palm
burning in sudden sensation,
ears alert for the first
sound of the whistle.
Often that whistle begins
with a rattle of the stop
against the O of the metal’s
aperture, the way in awe
a syllable gets stuck
against the roof of your mouth
before lips circle
and exhale wonder.
As the stop clatters,
the sound rising from faint
trill building to full roar,
you find yourself humming,
dopplered, a freight train
speeding by a small town at night.
Cat’s Paw
I have a divot in the skin
over a knuckle caused by an awl
slipping from a leather belt
my brother was trying to modify.
I had held my hand steady
rather than recoil when the awl struck,
and he said it was my fault,
that we all have a cat’s paw reaction,
withdrawing our hands instantly
before pain, that I lacked the instinct,
that could be why I never fought back
at insult or shoulder slug at school.
How could I tell him, years later,
that it served better in love,
that I kept my paw extended,
endured, that even with his addictions
it reached, was ready to pick him up.
Neighbor
It seems that every spring my neighbor’s house
has a sparrow couple sneak in a hole in his siding
and live between the wood and the spun insulation.
I can hear the birds chirp, and when they have young,
can hear the chirping all day for the first few weeks.
In the fall, he uses a Dremel brush and a power hose
to clean the hole, but never caulks or uses filler to gap the hole.
I asked him about the singing birds, if he can hear them inside.
Of course, he said, but I kind of enjoy it,
especially when I can hear the little ones.
The hard part comes in the fall. When you clean out the nest.
that’s pretty simple. The nest is always right on the border
of the hole before the tufting. Pretty easy to get to.
It’s what happens if the small ones die in the nest.
You never know when the song is gone what has caused it,
whether they flew away or died in the nest.
You only know the song is gone, so you keep pretending
that they live and thrive somewhere else.
It’s no different with my children.
All I know is that they sing somewhere else now,
But I keep the door unlocked in case they come.
—
Jeff Burt grew up in rural and small-town Wisconsin, with a boyhood dominated by fields and water. After stints in Texas and Nebraska, he has lived with his wife in Santa Cruz County, California, for most of his adult life, where his children grew and were released into the wilds of other places. He has contributed to Williwaw Journal, Heartwood, and Sheila-Na-Gig.