What to Make of It
You should have seen the faces of the onlookers
as I tried to bring the bird back to life.
I figured this was my chance to make something
of myself: a life-changing chance to give life.
After all, this was Easter week: I knew M street
could survive another resurrection.
First, I rubbed its torso down the length
of its beauty, careful not to disturb the feathers.
I noticed how my fingers could not sense
death: like a lover, sometimes they are the last to know.
Then, I pulled its claws and let go —
I watched them delicately spring back
into place — rigor mortis
had not set — it sets, like the light we tender
as ours, but here, on this patch of sidewalk,
I let go of my desire and watched its colors
fade — the same light in the same way
that will someday claim mine.