from THE BIRD ARTIST
At dawn, my husband takes out the birds. Puts them to bed.
When we wed, a percussion of wings in the courtyard, but now,
they sputter and rust from the damp. Clutter the tops of cabinets,
the kitchen pantry. I find one, one morning, tangled in my hair.
Small, leaking oil in my palm. Crushed in the hush of sheets
and blankets we pulled back and forth between us all night.
How to account for such broken things, this wedded life.
The knife we put to love each evening, then took away.
The bride cake and it's frosting teeming with ants at the reception.
Spoiled in all that sun.
