Poem for a Songbird I Knew for a Few Hours

We found you
outside the public library
busted wing and all
afraid
a big black dog
in an SUV
staring at you
licking its chops

My wife
her heart as huge
as the Upper Peninsula
cupped you in her hands
and we took you home
and spoke to you
and gave you a cage
and a clean towel
and a water dish
and seed

and my wife
could not name you
it would just hurt
too much
so I did

Kingston
and it hurt to do it
but I did

and I talked
into your inquisitive black eyes
I told you that I loved you
and would be right back
and we would talk some more

and then I left
and went to a birthing class
and watched videos
of the bloody sloppy
miracle of life
and we grimaced
my wife and I
and we talked
about babies
and we talked
about birds

I would put you
in the attic
and we would sit in silence
and watch the big black dogs
pass us by

Me with my Old Crow
and you with your seed

but that would never happen

I guess it wasn’t supposed to

Kingston
I’d like to think
you were happy
not getting stepped on
or eaten by a hawk

Just curling up next to a water dish
and letting go

Many people don’t let go

They mean nothing to me

but you

you meant it all

© 2016 Lee Kitzis

The Unpronounceable God

We look out
over the calm expanse
of Lake Superior
by the old light house
bleeding red

imagining
what the Native Americans
must have imagined
about
some crazy water god
with 10 syllables in his name
breaking the tide
with 300-year-old breath

our daughter
in your belly
using your bladder
as a beanbag

and the silence is fine

and you are beautiful

with your one gray hair
we both know you have
but don’t mention
and you hate
and I love

and we wait
for that unpronounceable god
to break the tide

and when he does
you turn to me
look into my eyes
smile and say

“I bet bear farts smell awful.”

“Absolutely,” I say

and we hold hands and
walk home

past the old houses

and the big breed dogs

© 2016 Lee Kitzis