sketched a bird next to some notes
when he wrote about his tour
as an Assistant Surgeon
in FL during the Seminole War.
Hughes documented people & places, mostly.
Creeks traversed. The rain. Soldiers, digging.
So, this delicate bird caught my attention.
He described its eyes as “brilliant black”
with crimson throat & “breast glittering gold.”
The pages are, like, two centuries old.
A faint trace of his cursive memory.
I put the digital diary in Photoshop.
The technology barely helped me better read the past.
But this poem isn’t about what’s lost,
details misheard or that ghostly bird
sketch. There’s a different image below it.
Hughes painted two glittering birds
with their long beaks crossed like swords
or fingers or another appendage, extended
like a line of thought. & maybe I’m just seeing
what I want. His notes are all in pencil or pen.
These birds – maybe a type of wren – watercolor
across its page. Soak his diary in orange, green.
A sunset red. & I won’t speculate on a man who’s dead.
Because there’s an ethic to the archive. Of handling
people’s stories. But I will say that the birds look pretty
gay. As in two dudes kissing. As in under a Florida
moon, I met a man who I later called home. & the two of us
made our nest from leaves & twigs & other scraps we found.
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This article appears in Apr 17-23, 2025.

