Issue 2



Sean Hill


Postcard to Anna

In Cairo the only pigeons I saw
were on menus and the backseat
of a Peugeot in and atop a sturdy
looking wooden cage because
the cage door was open, but I only
missed them where the morsel
of macaroni missed my mouth
at the open air eatery where I
dined with Jasmine off Talaat Harb.
There were no sparrows to clean up
my mess either. We found them on
a menu a few days later. The waiter hesitated
and translated the Arabic for our table,
and we said, Yes, we want
. The hesitation
at bones holding up, resisting the jaw,
my maw, those bones for tendons
to bind muscles to and help buoy
that tiny body above the flow of folk
with their sedentary urban tendencies,
a mouthful that came with a people
stopping by this river, edged with papyrus
that they beat flat and dried brown to leave
notes for each other. They were delicious,
those sparrows, in their port wine sauce.