Artwork by Maggie Kane
i.
the first thing i learned about dying was that you didn’t have to.
it would be another year before i stopped counting the swallows in the eaves,
and every time the chestnut tree dragged a knobbly hand across the window
i would see its small black body spasming on the ground.
when i ran into the road it was already gone,
a speck sliding quietly into the vanishing point.
i don’t remember much, but i remember this:
the sun casting pale blue fractals through its wings,
the sound of it forgetting how to sing.
ii.
& when we pulled into the driveway she was already gone.
we opened every door in the house, and
the wind ran from room to room like a child,
whipping the curtains into frantic shapes against the pitted walls.
clouds gathered low on the horizon in great silver spools.
in the yard, the chestnut tree shuddered
and began to come apart.
iii.
that night we left all the lamps on and lay
in our beds, listening.
the window cast a skeletal shadow that stretched from here to the mountains;
and the jackals—
like searchlights,
like arrows through the trees.
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