from THE BIRD ARTIST
One morning, they dragged the river for the woman whose husband
may have killed her. The children still in their beds come sun-up.
Come swallow song. The small shoes they clamored into
and out onto the lawn. The fawns that wandered through the fence.
and were shot summer before, blood everywhere. Even in our ears
as they cried. The children clutching blankets and bears, bleary eyed
and blinking. The birds outside were so bright that day they could have been
angels, godless, flailing. Could have been shadows, spotting the retina,
Could have been our own hearts, thrumming in our chests.
Diving blindly toward the windows.
