and Other Birds & Opossum
and Other Birds
Swallows spangle, wooing limb and branch
with articulations of tapered wings,
quicken rooted hearts,
five perched crows bring sickness six death
sweeping in and out
of pendulous nests, bodies
shifting spectrums of violet and green,
wish on summer’s first swallow carefully it will come true
sculpting air over thorn-veined dunes,
hummocks of silver lichen, white-flowered plum
bushes tossed by mating Chickadees,
a songbird landing on your hand predicts harm
glancing beach-pines stung with Orioles bright as tangerines,
magpies hold a drop of Devil’s blood beneath their tongues
Killdeer toeing roadside gravel to camouflage
unsheltered eggs,
sparrows carry the souls of the departed
a Black-Throated Warbler singing from my palm,
Wrens and Finches circling my head.
Opossum
Glass doors portrait yard, bird feeder, garage, all
dark or nearly - ambient streetlight tangerines,
and though the house sleeps, electronics blink readiness
to reawaken life I’ve lulled these months with
bare feet, benzos, my place here inside the glass
watching her pad behind a hopeful nose to trash cans,
compost bins, locked. Better luck below the bird feeder,
seed still scattered from when redtail snatched a starling,
cleaved the cloak of constellations from its living breast,
left bloody down and midnight feather stippling the lawn.
I shook for hours after that, brewed cups of tea and let them go cold.
Opossum merely circumambulates. Born the size of honeybees,
Jellybeans, sweet analogies for the homely and reviled
Didelphidae. Every other highway corpse is kin.
From the pocket of my robe I pull a heel of sourdough,
set it out on the patio. Her long snout lifts. I want
to sew a magic cape, impenetrable, with spider silk,
cirrus cloud, and the foolish affection I feel for this ratty
scavenger wobbling away with her prized dome of bread.
I want to keep her safe from men in trucks, kids with rocks,
unleashed dogs, everyday assholes. For when she is slow,
when she believes stillness makes her undetectable.
Because the world is awful, and I need to be redeemed.
Lisa Trudeau is a former publishing professional and independent bookseller. She lives in Massachusetts. Recent work has been published by or is forthcoming from Typehouse Literary Magazine, Levee Magazine, Cypress Press, Constellations, Eastern Iowa Review and Connecticut River Review, among others.