Small Mechanics: Poems

LAST BREATHNot a living soul about,except for me and the magpie. I knowif I don’t keep moving, he’ll pluckthe breath from my body, taste iton his tongue before it slidesdown his throat, giving him new propheciesto speak. He’s the bird Noah didn’t send out,afraid he’d carry the ark’s complaints to heaven.Tonight he scallops from the copse of willowsto the power pole, stares down at me. I match himcry for cry, not knowing what I mean but feelinggood about it, the bird part of my brain lit up.Coyotes, too, start their music as if the magpie’sflown in to be the guest conductorfor the length of time it takes the sun to sink.He flips his tail, bringing up the oboesthen the high notes of the flutes. Other souls,those I sense but cannot see,wait among the stones along the riverbankuntil they’re sure the magpie is distracted,then scentless and inedible to anyone but him,they make their wingless forayacross the ice and running water,mouthfuls of silence that, if not for coyotes,the magpie would hear. DON’T SAY ITYou admire the wild grassesfor their reticence.When you cut across the dusk for home,the meadow is more beautifulfor all it keeps inside.Syllables of seeds catch in your socksbut they don’t need to say,Thank you, friend,even if you’ve carried themfor miles. THE FIRST DAY OF THE YEARThe new writer sucks her fingersin her crib. There is nothingto distinguish her – like the extra toeon Hemingway’sliterary cats – from all the otherbabies down the block.She is dreaming inkthough she hasn’t seen itin this world yetand no one knows,least of all her parents,she loves nothingbetter than the blankflat whitenessof the bottom sheetwhen she’s laid dampfrom her morning bathupon it.