After Hearing David Rothenberg Sang with Birds

after John Murillo

I think of the dove dragging a bent wing across the neighbor’s lawn,
                  bursting into stuttered flutter at my feet.

Part of its neck gently erased, probably caught and let go by a cat. 
                  I threw my coat over it as if it were        

a tiny flame. Walked home with its body swaddled in my arms, 
                  I wanted to believe what I told the bird: everything

will be fine; I’m here to help you. Although we leave those 
                  we’ve hurt behind, sometimes we’re lucky

enough to find them. Like a good friend, I lied, knowing my husband 
                  and reluctant rifle would be waiting.

Before that, I was probably thinking how only one lawn sign 
                  wanted to Keep America Great. My belief restored

in a world worth saving. Long gone are the days when I tossed empty 
                  bottles in the air in prayer,

which is a nice way to say I loved my drama. Even so, some moments
                  I felt at home. The soft schizophrenic

guitarist who opened my fist, and walls fell away. The soldier I held saying, 
                  You’re too good. Maybe you’re a ghost; maybe we’re both

ghosts. A man who lived in his van. The ex-neighbor whose wife was away 
                  for July 4th weekend. The drunk captain at the dock

who watched a pigeon fall into the water. Said, Nature can be cruel, dear. 
                  His wife relegated him,

again, to sleep in his skiff. I wish I could’ve nursed that damaged dove 
                  back to breath.

But that was hours ago, and I didn’t want to end the story 
                  with a bang. No. I’d say something

instead about crewcut lawns; how years before, I was thinking 
                  for the thousandth time

about leaving a man I couldn’t stop breaking. Found a bird’s nest, 
                  a perfect bowl of dirt and dander, tipped

to the ground. I picked it up and decided this must be a sign: 
                  we work our asses off to create a thing,

and sometimes, we must let go. I placed the nest in the garden until rain 
                  washed it away. Or, I could tell about how,

last week, in the backyard, my husband was holding a limp squirrel 
                  by the tail. I told him if he made our home a place

of dying again, I’d spend the night in the nearest hotel. Angry, I left 
                  for the evening. As I went away, he said,

Sorry, just meant to scare it. But I left, then came back. This is how 
                  I’ve learned to move. Let me say this: last fall,

in a dark dive, someone whispered that my friend, a woman 
                  who drank until god wouldn’t let her,

from whom I’d quietly walked away, had fallen from the world. 
                  She’d woken up, put on yoga pants, and stood

on the roof of her office building. Texted her parents, I’m tired 
                  of the pain and stepped to the edge.

Maybe for a second, she flew. For the first time I can remember, weeping 
                  that night on the phone

with my mother. My moon-faced, hobbled mother, twisted, a broken     
                  bird from her last fall, said,

But she’s not in pain anymore. And now I try to hold this story together. 
                  My friend flew and fell. The coroner I called

the next day, as I hid behind my office door. He explained, The heart 
                  is a wasp’s nest. She was lying

on her side. A dust of gravel. A little blood, nothing more. The note 
                  in her pocket, I’m sorry you have to find me.

Months stretched out in pockets, and not a coo or peep about her. 
                  There’s an old picture of her and me, twirling

in long blouses at a bar. Nobody else was dancing. Which brings me 
                  to the wasp nest-heart. How we fly out

of ourselves, a bird from branch, dragging our beautiful burden
                  after the cat didn’t finish what it began.

Even so, I reckon there’s time to stay, time to walk away, and time 
                  to finish what the world began.

After my friend jumped, I’d sit in my office and count stories 
                  of buildings. She jumped 13 floors.

Later, I asked the coroner if he had photos. My husband said, Some things
                  you can’t unsee.

I said, I should. The coroner, on the phone, saying, You can’t. 
                  When Rothenberg sang with birds,

perhaps he wanted to capture what limited language can’t sing 
                  about suffering. On our lawn today,

I unwrapped the dove from my coat, studied its gnarled wing 
                  and broken neck.

So many times, my husband has sent me photos of doves, saying, Look 
                  how they love.

They call each other, certain they’ll return. Even so, I lay down 
                  the wounded bird’s body.

Did you know a flock of doves is called a mourning? Unlike grief, 
                  which is a silent song, mourning is the outward act.

I turned the dove face down on the lawn, stroked its dull-gloss head. 
                  Said, You’ll be fine. The gun’s barrel angled close.

Mourning: what a man might do when a woman sends him singing
                  to his moored rowboat

for the night. Or a woman who stands at a ledge and spreads her arms. 
                  Imagine pigeons below scatter. Her panicked father

calling for angels in white and blue. The soft-spoken coroner who said 
                  to me, A PhD, pretty, young, why? And a forever of last minutes.

Like a good friend, I lied to that woman. She asked when I didn’t return 
                  her calls, Are we OK? I’d said, We’re fine.

As when I stroked the dove, it turned what was left of its neck, closed 
                  its eyes, my husband saying, Close your eyes,

as I watched him finish. With that friend, I left and never looked 
                  back. Tonight, I’ll walk this block again.

Strain to listen to the doves’ call. Holding on, holding close, 
                  and bringing home the body’s broken song.