“
I'm not sure what I imagined, but I thought
the lapis sash of a mallard's wing meant joy
was everyone's destiny. that it was tucked in
if only you knew how to look, how to route salt
to the side of your tongue, bitter to the back.
I preened in the gloss of black ice. Our vows
lassoed the night sky--tried to-- each word a flint-dipped sparkler, a nest of lightning or a thrashing
fuse. Wasn't that love?
Not the way violins are
made, maple soaked, warped, planted till sound
bloats wood's ancient fissures. Not like the bow
slow-combed, pale horsehair secured,
capped in wax.
when you begin to hate a man, his stunt fingers swell with fat. His red face sweats strawberry rot.
Like a stuck pig, the door, if locked, brays and grunts at his boot-strike, shoulder-strike.
The town is small,
but it's his. You dial, wanting someone to marvel with you, to witness that cheap bolt as it holds.
To fix the cornered nuthatch three-quarters dead, still resisting in the cat's mouth, still dreaming of flight.
”
”