Heavy drops fall around me. Turns out there’s rows of pigeons

strung above me. I scurry back and forth beneath the wires

 

because that’s where the sun strikes.

I can’t escape. Too many. Step to shade.

 

On the mat yesterday Carly told us to bring our knees wide

to our armpits. I felt like a defenseless baby and like someone

 

waiting to get fucked simultaneously. The pigeons swarm

away so I move back to warm. In flight upturned bellies glitter.

 

Not two minutes later the drops return. I can’t help myself.

I try to figure out what moves them. The truck pulling up? Enough shit

 

plopped? A single leader stirring the flock? I’ve been wondering

if I should just sleep with Drew. I told him I was a lesbian before

 

because I had proof. This is a lie that can easily be undone.

The birds kinda have it going on. I haven’t been regular in weeks,

 

except that one day after six of saying I was sick. Not entirely

false; my body refused function. Not entirely true;

 

there was no external invasion. Yesterday I orgasmed for the first

time in weeks. Been waiting until I feel “ready” aka wanting.

 

The glimmer came while writing. I stripped, set a timer, said fifteen

minutes max. It’s a method I read about — restriction with no pressure

 

to climax. Got there in seven pretty proud of myself. Thought,

immediately, this means I can have someone else. On Tinder.

 

I love to do that, so easily over excited. Swiped till my head

hurt. Disappeared over an hour. I google pigeon mating patterns.

 

Turns out they “marry” for life and the girls are bisexual. The boys

don’t get to be because of aggression. There’s no reliable way

 

to determine a pigeon’s sex, pigeonrescue.org warns

breeders. All you’ve got is some behavioral guidance,

 

but moreso, a fifty/fifty chance.