About the Feature
Photo by Biodiversity Heritage Library
My father put the bat in a glass jar, after,
though I’m not sure that’s the whole story.
I never saw and can’t be certain. But I’d
watched it leap through the window, and
the forked wings circled my head—as in
old cartoons when incredible blows strike
against the striving orchestra. Bruno would
always cut off their wings. He’d show me
trophies of caterpillars, crickets, and melt
live bugs in the microwave. If he’d stayed
back in Belgrade, he’d have shelves creaking
with guns. Yet, it was in strange opposition
that above his bed, gold and turquoise
wings were pinned near a pencil drawing
I’d done of his dog. Of course, there persisted
something low, dank. But if he stole a beer
from downstairs, we’d share. Keep the
lights on. Sometimes, there was even music.
About the Author
Ena Djordjevic is a former refugee of Yugoslavia and holds an MFA from the University of Maryland. An Academy of American Poets Prize recipient, her work has appeared in the Mid-American Review, River Styx, The Southern Poetry Anthology, and elsewhere. She lives in Dublin, Ireland with her husband.