When the Twins Were Born

When the twins were born, I worried about bleeding out. All week after, birds circled overhead. I asked the nurses, what kind of birds are they? Do they ever make a sound? A cry, a curse, any scrap or draft. The youngest nurse—only about 243 people years old—was the only one willing to answer my questions. She knew how to be careful, nodded her perfect hairless head once. A tiny gesture to say yes, I understand what you want. I acknowledge that your wants share a corner with your needs. But I got no more that day, and most of the next. Dinner came. A plate of mussels, difficult to pry open in my hospital bed. Nurse came in alone to take the plates away. She could see I was thinking of the birds. We could see them outside in a square of sky, slow as galaxies. I had noticed they never swooped to alight on a cornice or winter branch. Just around and again, steady speed, silent. By now I could just about count their number, but I’d never dare speak that sum aloud. Who would? Such counting wakes everybody up. The mothers hiss in their middle register, stop that prattle. Don’t you know we have only a half tank of good air till morning? So nurse piled my plates on her trolley. She took her time collecting my spoon and fork. We’re a capital now, she told me. I just heard it on the radio. General amnesty is the rumor, but no official word. I kept my eyes on the birds, blinked in rhythm with their wings. Would be great news for you, she said. You’re young enough to have another pair. How many have heard this line, I wondered. She was standing by the window now. And then? Well, we’re a capital city now. Sometimes capital twins are allowed a second eye.