Blackbird

yesterday, I saw a blackbird die

I saw its eyes, 
veiled by a thin sheet of frost
unstirring 
beneath white satin curtains
like the ones we hid behind one summer afternoon
to feel the soft folds of silk
against our skin.

I saw its beak,
slightly ajar
amber bleeding from the sides of its jaw
like the sugary sap
that we would have gathered 
together
when winter whispered her first breath
to fallen autumn leaves.

I saw its nape,
throat shattering 
into a million stars
like the night you told me
that you loved wild roses 
and seahorses,
and all the stars listened
beside us.

yesterday,
I saw a blackbird die.
but I did not weep
because it 
died 
too beautifully
and weeping is only for
tragedies.

today, 
I stand by the vermillion honeysuckle
and snakeflowers
that mark his coffin,
and I pour vodka over his grave.

because yesterday, 
I watched a blackbird die.
I watched him writhe
thrashing
flailing
cries shriveling
words drowning.

but all I could do now 
was to knit him a hat, so 
he wouldn’t be
cold.