White spotted breast, orange and black
on your head—I wouldn’t have seen if you
were not warm in my hand, but dead.
At the thud of a window strike I ran
for the deck, hoping for merely stunned,
but no chance in the tilt of your neck.
I nestled you in woods-edge laurel,
fetched the soap for crosshatch bars
to mark south-facing windows.
This season at last, brought to ask
which fatalities are fated, I regret
the mobile hung was to no avail.
In this rural calm, so far spared
the siren’s wail of despair, we wait,
worry, wash hands, wear masks.
Unable to see our path, in tangential
grief, make stark the barrier we built—
a warning, I hope, this tic tac toe of soap.
Share this post with your friends.