And the fire that broke from thee then
—HopkinsSpring, and the birds are flocking,
revved up and zooming
around the house in a sleeve
of air, bouncing off windows
then pouring into the holly tree
to gorge on red berries. Wee
gray engines with brown tufts
too wet out of the shell for
thoughts of wooing. Only eating
and being part of the vow that is
each other. Born to it, this watery
flow of multiple births moving as one—
this communal orgy of worship.
The holly is Argus-eyed,
each berry, each holy tidbit
winking red, signaling
from dark leaves: Eat me, stuff me in,
shit me out. Spread the good news.
But what of the celebrant
too heavy with bliss, too loaded
with gobble and gulp, who hit
the window? The ah! bright wings
that never rose? The baby dinosaur
blessed with appetite, slammed
by a boomerang oflight?
I tell you, My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird. The split breast.
The stained feathers. Gash. Gush
of red spill. Splotch of sour and unripe.