1/29--Bluebird

Bluebird

In spring I will take a polaroid of you in your t-shirt
and the bluebird will fly out from under your sleeve.
It came to you
before you had those restless nights
eyes wide was a cartoon cat,
thinking of the dampness of that tent
where she tore you apart like a bear
knocking over thermoses of hot chocolate
and cracking your camera lens.

Since then all the girls came in their blue veils
to plant land mines in your bruised body.
You had to etch it on to remember
when it flew in to meet you
at the farmhouse in muddy spring
while you rummaged through your father's records in the attic.

You said that you like the cold wind at your back,
that snowflakes were softer than babies' fingers
if you can stand facing the sky for awhile.
You can't get the sound of the violin out of your head
or the way she dresses like light catches the bottoms of CDs.

Spring has to come someday
after the sun fades the valentines on your windowsill
and the Christmas candy has gone stale.
I will arrive with it
bumming a ride on the thaw.
Unannounced,
subtle as a note in your pocket
a girl in a purple dress
a bird that does not sing.
It flies.