Oiseau

Numbly, the body owns its cold. This morning I watched pigeons and sparrows peck the crust of ice, what the odd snowfall left, a scattering of safflower seeds and dried corn, watched their shadows hover over snow, blue shadows teaching the white not to blind. Ombres des ailes: sometimes my ailment moves like them, ténébreuse, double. A little bird, unbroken, palpitates where it fell. How do you kill what struggles, a pulse at its throat like a plea? Tomorrow will die here, all no to my rusty drum, my dim aviary, the cage of my womb. It's not about a place of cold music, shrill calls to shut coos. It's not how pennyroyal steams the dawn. Pigeons sleep not knowing the ledge ends and wake to rose light too soft for this season. When the dark bird lands upon the horse's back, it kicks open, the most innocent horse, the death horse, drowsed, white—