Vol 1 No 1 2007
Jefferson’s Parrots
In this semi-circle of a room, half-moon off the parlor, Jefferson sits
writing letters to his friends. It is late, the candles have dripped
over
and dribbled beyond themselves, his reading wheel, strapped-new
with four books, rocks anxious in the slight wind that trembles
through the door. Behind his desk, the day bed is rumpled. All
these
hours of reading, writing, the moon gets full waiting for his muse
to come inside the door. Wedged between windows and bookcases,
the door looks like it could be a window, that’s the genius of the
design
brought back from France, along with wine and countless objets:
the hand-colored engravings and china plates with painted parrots that
line these walls. Les Perroquets, their scarlet and indigo
wings so exotic.
He fumbles with a quill, frustrated: Will she ever come?,
and looks out to his gardens. The night is encrusted with stars,
fragrant lavender drifting up the hill through his curtains. He wants
to will her to come, but logic overrides feeling. He must occupy
his mind—
control this desire, coil it up, pack it tight in a snuff box for reserve.
His head falls exhausted on the desk. The country’s policies
and progress
weave themselves into sleep. And the parrots bear witness while he
dreams.
Yvonne Murphy