In clusters of dirt
behind your cherry dresser
I found the lace of breastbone. Zap, of course,
precise in the vague flapping terror. Zap,
of course, with you, in Oakland. So little blood,
so many feathers. Like our last fight that dawn.
In your sweaters, in
your jewelry, all day
I looked for more as I packed. Once I thought
I found some on the lamp, but on close inspection
they proved to have come from your gruesome pillow.
That was only
Tuesday.
And even though you are back in this room,
and your sweaters, and jewelry,
and pillow, and dresser and lamp,
and even though you sleep,
Zap curled at your feet,
my eyes, frenetic, paw corners
for pieces of the bird.
