icon caret-left icon caret-right instagram pinterest linkedin facebook twitter goodreads question-circle facebook circle twitter circle linkedin circle instagram circle goodreads circle pinterest circle

(or, to support my work with a small monetary contribution, see the Substack link on the left)

The Bird


The bird that hit my windshield
kept flying into me while I carried her
up into the mountains her body
was going flatter and flatter
under the wheels of big rigs gunning
it for Billings in Sheridan a town
named after a man who spent
his retirement killing Indians
I squeegeed her blood off the wind
shield the better to see where I was
going by the time we hit Yellowstone
she had burrowed into my heart
we made camp together made supper
what I ate sustained her the fire
we made together warmed her wings
when I sang she sang also I felt
guiltless as Sheridan coming home
from the Plains his stars doubled
in the mirror the moment before
he took all his clothes off
covered his wife’s mouth
with his it wasn’t until I lay down
under stars spinning from wine
that the bird wanted out
I ached all over broke
into a sweat I thought for sure
I would die it was only after I had
fallen asleep that she found her way
out the way a bird will find its way
out of a house it has flown through
a broken window into
Be the first to comment