The Carcasses We Love
There’s a dead bird on the side of the road, like there always is somewhere.
Like the bodies at the lake floors, still wearing their shoes.
Except this one had the insolence to die on my bike route.
The poor, stupid thing must’ve flown itself into a windshield
I thought
The first time I saw it, bloodless and still.
I used to have to close my eyes.
Quiet and perfect, like a forgotten doll
Its eyes were open,
In some kind of protest against its own tragedy
But I know that it didn’t mean it that way.
There’s a dead bird on the side of the road, and I resented it for a long time.
The dumb thing went ahead and killed itself exactly in the place I bike through as the sun falls
As I make my way home from work.
I swore it kept its eyes open to mock me.
LOOK AT ME
CRY HERE AND NOW
Let everyone see you, collapsed here on the pavement, on the curb
You poor
Stupid
Thing
There’s a dead bird on the side of the road between the farm and the purple house, I’ve watched it
Dismember
Slowly, gracefully.
I age with the drifting of its joints, the evaporation of its feathers,
The decomposition of its eyes.
They say dance like no one’s watching, but they are.
Even in death, we are loved. Even violently. Even passively. Even in silence.
