April Selection #5

We heard your breast on the glass
The smallest light down
circling
where you’d been in rust
and cream
We looked for you
in the grass, hoping
you’d be dead
but we found you
with that inexpressible
liquid, the mouth moving
rapidly
as a truck rolled by.
I waited, watching
a bird land on
the same lawn and not
notice
how painful it is.
Huddled and breathing low
to the ground
your eyes deform before me.
There are sirens sounding in flight
but I cannot bury you yet,
there are too many birds
drinking that blue juice
in the trees.
Singing
like you must have been
the day the privet
ripened.

--Michelle Brandt