The Nighthawk Swallows Its Prey in Flight

by Laura Zacharin

Nighthawk, from Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows – A recurring thought that strikes you late at night…

A hairshirt is worn against the chest. Also known as sackcloth or cilice/cilicium

from “Cilicia”, where wild goats run free and the cloth originated. Twigs

are woven in to irritate the underlying skin. Nighthawk

is a misnomer. The nighthawk flies at dawn, feeds on clouds

of insects hovering at streetlamps and other light sources, including nightlights

Hard heartedness, inadvertently, under duress or willingly, by foolish talk, improper

thoughts. Bristles surround a tiny beak to help corral the prey.  Nighthawk eats

and defecates in flight. In the small hours when the rest of the world sleeps the blue sleep

of the innocent I try on the shirt the nighthawk brings me, bespoke, make sure

the fit is right and the bristles irritate just enough but not so much that I can’t wear it

under ordinary clothing. Things you can do in a hairshirt: watch tv, preferably

a long dramatic series with 8 seasons and a simple plot line, apologize

even though the person on the other end is sleeping, eat cereal

from the box, bite your nails until they’re even or they’re bleeding, whichever 

comes first, feed your dog, play online scrabble. The 8 letters

of my online scrabble game line up to spell GUILTWOE. I can’t play this

as one word. The board won’t accept it. Even if everyone else

is asleep. Other things you can do are harder to recall, drowned out

by the whoosh of nighthawk wings and its sharp electric peent call, and of course,

the pungent odor of its defecation. For example, peel off sections

of the brilliant Murcott mandarin, brew small batch coffee, listen for the footsteps

running down the stairs when the toast pops up or that song comes on. The smell

of freshly laundered sheets, and the dog breathing is unbearable. If only I didn’t have

these bristles poking into my skin my life would be perfect. Ascetics, penitents

and saints etc. consider the discomfort akin to fasting. I also fast. I call it fasting

but the truth is I’ve lost my appetite. At night I lock and double bolt. Turn off

the porch lights, my devices. Windows and doors are air-tight with caulking. A kettle

of nighthawks can be made of thousands of these crepuscular birds. It will bring you

to your knees. I can’t tell where the voice comes from. It comes from everywhere

Hundreds or thousands of tiny bristled nighthawk beaks. I bend forward to my knees

Committed openly or secretly, knowingly, unknowingly, with evil talk, coercion

by disrespect for, by scoffing, with impudence, prattle of the lips.