Passage
Audio art installation (underground walkway to University of Washington Medical Center)
Were they jays? Swallows, or finches? Dark-eyed
juncos, robins maybe? Hitchcockian--
that walk to ICU—though the tunnel
of birds—toward my father’s room. There were flocks
and flocks. Hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands
of verdins, or larks, or starlings—all calling,
calling—stuck deep down below hospital
grounds. What artist thought that cacophony
might comfort? The soundtrack whistled on-
loop, on and on—siskins or kinglets—singing,
singing raucous at once, dawn until dusk
until dawn. Notes echoed off walls as one,
shrill song. A trillion violins, strings
pulled thin, then plucked by icepicks. The carcass-
hymn of bones hollowed by wind, a tune with air
for marrow. And on certain visits, whippoorwills
or wrens—chickadees, pipits, or sparrows--
could only have been banshees, keen after
keen, screaming. The passage shuddered, rang.
There, space narrowed. Shrank beneath sound’s weight.
Canaries were once carried through shafts such as that,
their hush forewarning. But under floors, wards, and breath
cut short, the birds kept chirping. Flights above,
I still heard them. In his room, silence sang.
Were they jays? Swallows, or finches? Dark-eyed
juncos, robins maybe? Hitchcockian--
that walk to ICU—though the tunnel
of birds—toward my father’s room. There were flocks
and flocks. Hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands
of verdins, or larks, or starlings—all calling,
calling—stuck deep down below hospital
grounds. What artist thought that cacophony
might comfort? The soundtrack whistled on-
loop, on and on—siskins or kinglets—singing,
singing raucous at once, dawn until dusk
until dawn. Notes echoed off walls as one,
shrill song. A trillion violins, strings
pulled thin, then plucked by icepicks. The carcass-
hymn of bones hollowed by wind, a tune with air
for marrow. And on certain visits, whippoorwills
or wrens—chickadees, pipits, or sparrows--
could only have been banshees, keen after
keen, screaming. The passage shuddered, rang.
There, space narrowed. Shrank beneath sound’s weight.
Canaries were once carried through shafts such as that,
their hush forewarning. But under floors, wards, and breath
cut short, the birds kept chirping. Flights above,
I still heard them. In his room, silence sang.
Erika Brumett’s words appear in numerous publications, including North American Review, Prairie Schooner, and Five Points. Her novel, Scrap Metal Sky, was published in 2016 by Shape&Nature Press. A chapbook, bonehouse, is forthcoming from Green Linden Press.
The composition of “Passage” was, for me, both exploration and discovery. Years have passed since my father faced ALS, yet poems for him are only beginning to form. This ekphrastic surprised me—in a sense—by highlighting how circumstantial our response to art can be. A friend recently welcomed a baby at the hospital featured in the piece. When I mentioned the audio installation, she frowned and said, “Disturbing? No, not at all... those birds were delightful.”
The composition of “Passage” was, for me, both exploration and discovery. Years have passed since my father faced ALS, yet poems for him are only beginning to form. This ekphrastic surprised me—in a sense—by highlighting how circumstantial our response to art can be. A friend recently welcomed a baby at the hospital featured in the piece. When I mentioned the audio installation, she frowned and said, “Disturbing? No, not at all... those birds were delightful.”