Cardinal
The drill of its song the whoop whoop whoop
more insistent at sunrise than a clock—
nobody should sleep when it wants a mate!
It’s a red biretta the wind sends tumbling off
a flame burning on the top branch of an oak
and nothing crumbles nothing turns to ash
it’s God having second third and fourth
thoughts an apple with wings a star cooled
into a song Once I held one in my hands
I hadn’t seen it fly through the propped open door
as the handyman carried out buckets of old paint
it must have felt sorry to see all that color go
it must have sensed a vacuum it could fill
it flew in bumped against windowsills crowded
with stones and little vases it was a flower
that didn’t need a stem it didn’t know
what it was getting into didn’t know that
getting out wouldn’t be easy it was a panic
dressed in feathers a jittery laser light
I had to be patient and quick to get its heartbeat
in my two hands elbow open the back door
stand there letting its soft volts pulse through me
a jolt of undiluted life it was a small god
I didn’t want to let go I could see why people
make idols and icons its fright stirred my pity
it was a flame flickering if it didn’t get air
it would be snuffed out I had to open
my hands let it be reborn it was a flag
flying free of its insignia of pulley and pole
it was a spark blown off the grinding wheel
of the world to catch wherever it landed
it was a visitation I couldn’t doubt and like
all visitations it left me breathless and bereft
