Poverty--A Triptych--
(Panel 2)
Because the partridge breast was shaped like a heart
when cupped whole, and it’s open cavity was
a tiny grotto the saints may have known rapture in,
I forgave the lice and mites and all kind in the wing
span of the one grouse my father lent me.
When it was finally my turn to tack the spread of feathers
to my wall (all the rest went to my sister who rubbed
each plume against her cheek like they were
fingers, like she were counting, making lists, eyes
closed) instead I meant to keep it safe in the paper
box I hid all my treasures in.
This time it was only one wing--the other sprayed through
with birdshot my father said and because he’d plucked
it on the road and gutted and cut the heart and liver
at his buddy’s house, all that could be saved
was this one small wing.
It’s hard to imagine a bird flying with only half its balance
but I did and I made it work with pitch and precision
and string and a secret stage where all the half
animals I’d ever known would hop or crawl or limp
across the floor and spotlight their qualities.
Legless rabbits who could lay eggs.
Wet kittens knit and knit and knit mittens.
Piglets rolled out blueprints and stacked bricks.
Dogs took up the dishes and washed them
in milkmoon light.
And the grand finale, the strut of birds, their wings
entwined like women arm in arm, spread
straight and lift their legs
at the cue and dance until it was enough
to lift them off the floor entire, right up
and out into the world, the sky, the pure
pure unhunted blue sky.
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