Ample make this bed, / Make this bed with awe—
—Emily Dickinson
Emergencies are common things.
Today the cat brought home
a tufted titmouse with seed-black eyes,
breast skin stripped, heart pulsing,
body bare as a tongue. My lover
swabs the gore with Q-tips and peroxide.
He wants some cotton thread, a needle
to sew the shreds together,
a clean cloth and quiet box.
Still, the bird will die.
My father’s bed is raised or lowered
at the head and foot by buttons
he insists I push to demonstrate.
Hung high, the TV plays scene
after scene of Wile-E-Coyote plotting
to bomb the Road Runner,
only to find himself charred
by a circular fuse. It comforts us
to think the good guy always wins.
My father, who cannot hold a pen,
is composing a story I transcribe
to enter later into my computer’s memory.
Before I go he lifts his gown to show
the tubes implanted in his gut,
holding me with washed blue eyes.
His skin hangs on his frame like silk.
Leaving the elevator, head lowered, I bolt
down the hall, but workmen have barred
the automatic door, and I can’t get out
this way. I am not prepared for detours.
At home, I discover hidden in the grass
a pair of thin dun feathers tipped in gold,
gather them to adorn my traveling hat.
