About this time last year, we lost a magnificent writer, Judith Ortiz Cofer. At 64 years of age, she passed away too soon, from cancer.

I began reading Judith’s work only this past year, her literature for children. One of the books I read was If I Could Fly. It’s about a girl named Doris who cares for homing pigeons on the rooftop of her apartment building. Interspersed in the book is information about pigeons. I still was not called to hold pigeons, as Doris did. But the book made me seem them in a whole new light.

At college, before I’d ever visited New York, I met a boy from the Bronx. We’d been set up for a dorm dance and in our formal wear we sat talking and I laughed and laughed at his descriptions of the city. He described the rats, and also the pigeons.

Some years ago, while hanging out at the New York Public Library, I wrote this poem about pigeons. It was never published. Rightfully so, since it’s not a very good poem. But I wish to dedicate it to Judith Ortiz Cofer. I have a feeling her protagonists would appreciate it.

Ortiz Cofer wrote of the beauty to be found in New York City and New Jersey. She wrote of pigeons.

When Even the Pigeons Are Beautiful

You know you’re having a good day
when even the pigeons are beautiful.
And not just beautiful
but equally so
as the blonde model in furs
straddling one lion at the Library.
Normally, you wouldn’t even have given her that,
except that she has one high heel on
(the one by the camera)
and the other foot dangles in its stocking unseen.

She had to climb up there
in her short skirt
to pose and push out her chest
with all the families watching.
They finish, one man moves to take her hand.
And it vanishes,
the certainty
with which she puckered her lips
and held her hair high
spilling gold over her neck.
She climbs off that lion,
the man’s arm flexing
to counter her wobbling grasp.
She stoops and crouches awkwardly
showing white underwear.

You think this is the picture they should have taken
but they’ve gathered their equipment and hi-tailed it down Fifth.
Now the families rush the spot
to claim their own memories.
They are radiant,
their other-language words flung
in the healthy attitude of Frisbees.
But oh, the pigeons.

They bound with purpose.
They land with grace.
They walk under your table, close to your shoe.
No crumbs for these beauties,
you’d take their orders to the deli.
You hang on their every move.
But they are not new,
the closer you look.
It’s recognition
stirring this delight.
You know them
like you know this street this time of day
like you know anonymous models slipping
back on their shoes
and tulips planted for spring.

It’s New York, but beauty does not leave you.
It just lives terribly close.