Beak a slash of amber and fire,
glossy as if polished by wax
and left to sit under the shade of a leaf,
a pronounced slope from shaft to tip,
sly grin of the long-dead Toucan.
The skull, like a growth,
bulges from the beak,
black-spotted and tarnished.
I imagine wind swirling
through the hollow. How
does it hold together, refuse
to crumble? Yes, the weight
of the ostentatious beak
is feather-light. Not made
for snatching slick river fish,
but for plucking figs and guava
from brittle branches,
for grunting and show-boating
before potential mates—the flirtatious dazzle
of their sunset jaws. Their charisma perfected
across generations: light spilling
over the toco’s bill as it skins an orange
and digs into the pulp, as it twitches
and hops, as it passes a bit of fruit
gently to its mate, mouths joined
in a flamboyant lover’s arch.
Who cares if the arch, eventually, breaks?
If the feathers molt and muscles slough away,
fertilizing the trees fat with citrus?
This serrated instrument, death-fused
to a dusty bone, is lavish with life.
