On Subjectivity (Springfield, Massachusetts)

by Shou Jie Eng

She—it—rolled under my hood.
I was hemmed in. I was trapped
between a car to my right
and the parapet. On the overpass
it—he—rolled under my front
bumper. Front-right quadrant.
They appeared—as a bird—a gull?
a piece of Styrofoam? Brand
name turned generic. Also, if
the building trades—blue board
or XPS, for expanded polystyrene.
But if a gull, why so far
from the water? The river, close
by, maybe? But the ocean. Maybe
another white bird? What bird?
White. She appeared as if injured
and I ran into her. Him. He—I
couldn’t stop. Couldn’t turn—I
was trapped between a car
to my right and the parapet.
Couldn’t pull over to see—the I-91
at sixty over the overpass over
Springfield. A piece of loose foam
will appear to move in the eddies
formed by the wake of moving
vehicles as if living. I’ve seen it
before. I swear. It—she—passed
under my front-right bumper.
Under my vehicle. Braced for it
but felt no bump. What a vehicle
striking a bird should feel like
I have no idea. Couldn’t stop.
I drove on and did not remember
an hour later to check.

Published on June 9, 2025