from THE BIRD ARTIST
In summer, my lover brings me things. Pigeon feather, moonstone,
silver locket. Once a stolen pie from the baker, fat with cherries
and way too sweet. I make him a water whistle shaped like a warbler
out of wood, then hide it carefully in my skirts. But nothing good can come of afternoon,
sun sticky and damp with breath. Death so close we could still smell it,
wafting from the tanning room. Creeping up from the kitchen.
I'd undo my dress and underneath, the marks on my body make him cry. The belt,
the broom, the back of a hand. All written exquisite on the skin. The thin
membrane between my hand and thumb, a burn I rub salve on,
but it never seems to heal. The warbler presses into my hip as he takes me rough
on the carpet. Over the chaise lounge. Warps in the humidity and won't sing
a single note. Only black water in it's craw, where no good can come of night.
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