I’m watching The Birds
for comfort. Bodega Bay
rocks me back to childhood,

the simple boats and cars,
the rural coast. In DuMaurier’s tale,
there’s no love story, just a lone

man’s existential last stand.
Hitchcock gives us hope: the silver
car threading its way down the bird-

infested California coast, with God-
lighting slanting through the clouds.
In reality, Hitch kept trying

to force his bulk on Tippi.
Rebuffed, he hurled live birds
at her for a week to film

the Don’t-go-up-the-stairs scene.
When she asked why her character
would do something so mad, he said,

Because I told you to. He wrecked
her career. Made her immortal.
Hitch had visited Monterey Bay:

thousands of sooty shearwaters
really did run amok, crashing
into cars and windows, vomiting

anchovies poisoned by toxic algae.
But fuck reality, back to the movie:
How come no one ever thinks to put on

a helmet, gloves, goggles, or even
a soup pot over their head? Crawl
under the bed and pad yourself

with pillows. Get a broom or bat
and whirl like a dervish. No, they just
wait in fetching attitudes, faces and legs

exposed to the predatory beaks.
I never look at the farmer’s pecked-out
sockets. Once as a child was enough—

I know just when to shut my eyes.