In the garage, where her husband’s car still sits, we try everything else first— the cauldron of red nectar as lure,
the swimming pool net as prod—
but the bird is tired of launching against glass. It surrenders its bespoke body to the cobwebbed sill and gives up The sky
through the window is a trick of the light, a what-might-have-been.
Hibiscuses close. Blooming now, the belly of the moon. I am afraid to touch it. These birds weigh less than an ounce, and my hands are full of excuses. Hers have
touched death and did not feel
a mystery unfolding In one swift motion,
she grasps and lets go
the beating thing,
her own breath.
Shannon Finck is a lecturer of English at the University of West Georgia. She has a Ph.D. in transatlantic modernism & global contemporary literatures and an M.F.A. in creative nonfiction and narrative poetry. Her critical and creative work has appeared in such journals as Angelaki, Miranda, a/b: Autobiography Studies, LIT: Literature Interpretation Theory, The Journal of Modern Literature, The Florida Review, and FUGUE. She currently serves as Poetry Editor for Muse/A.
Twitter: @shannonbgoode