Los­ing the Rain­bow Sheen of the Bronzew­ing’swings

The Iowa Review - - NEWS -

It’s go­ing, the sheen. Re­con­structed from mem­ory and com­par­i­son with birds in sun­show­ers, pris­matic re­flec­tion cast over an­other bird, half a world away, a bird more fa­mil­iar with heat. Dérac­iné as ir­rel­e­vant as species to par­tic­u­lar­i­ties of range, the no-mi­gra­tory life led by a bronzew­ing whose sheen rubbed off, whose rain­bow was any­thing but Ro­man­tic, who re­buffed the atomic art move­ment. Id­iot politi­cians who con­flate ura­nium with flight, with the light we read by. A sud­den flap of wings with­draws the pi­geon, the bronzew­ing, bronze-age echo or ric­o­chet, plates of a nat­u­ral­ist’s book res­onat­ing from mu­seum all the way to a poet’s in­fu­sion, bird in the gar­den, the here without pin­ions to grip light where air is a dif­fer­ent pres­sure.

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