The joke about birds constantly singing for sex has been around forever. Another weekend, I was alone, touching myself, half absent, changing the channels back and forth between the ceiling and the rain on the window. Somewhere between peeling myself and the soft shocks I was seeking, a bird hit the glass. I held my own hand, pressing on and in, thought about pubic hair and landing strips and safety. I came looking out the window, thinking how the last thing the bird saw was either itself or me, both animals, incompatible with the world outside, through the clear glass that didn’t even crack with a body thrown against it.
K. Twyla Park (She/her)
K. Twyla Park is an autistic, lesbian creative. Born and raised in Pennsylvania, she and her wife have been transplanted in the American Southwest. You can find her listening to records, rock hunting, at a baseball game, or on Instagram @visualktp.