Lizzy Burnam 🐞

She was the light of his life: one 
of thousands, a pigeon 
pure-white as a lightning bolt 
with gray-tipped wings 
as if dipped in ash. He believed 
they understood each other, 
an electric current of impossible love 
beating back and forth between them. 
I suppose not even a genius is immune 
to the irrationality of love. He was, 
after all, another soul seeking purpose 
in a world that refused him. 
At night, he took long walks to find her, 
and find her he always did, 
a beacon of peace 
in the cruel and waning days of his career. 
This is a man who declined to accept 
the Nobel prize alongside Edison; 
who discovered the frequency of the earth—
heard the planet sing like a ringing bell 
and saw the future’s precise geometry 
crystallize in his mind;
who understood from birth 
the symmetry of breath and sky. 
In the final weeks of his life, 
Tesla was struck by a taxi cab 
and couldn’t walk to his pigeon, so 
he left the window open for her 
and waited. Later, she flew in 
through the window and died in his arms. 
He said: “Up to that time I knew 
with a certainty that I would complete 
my work, no matter how ambitious 
my program, but when that something 
went out of my life I knew 
my life’s work was finished.”  
It’s one of many strange and spectacular
stories of the scientist’s life, 
a testament to the wide spectrum of 
the progressive utility of madness. 
The walls we build, the wires 
we’re bound by, the wildness 
inseparable from the civilized self. 
Both pigeons and people play their part, 
as do the smallest bolts and washers 
in holding together the meat 
and skeletons of great machines. Yet, 
all the fundamental laws of the universe
can be reduced to one: 
To remain sane in this world 
is to live without love. 
And so, a pocketful of birdseed.