It sweeps and arcs across my path almost every day on my walk to the cafe, under sun or cloud, its red seeming lit from inside, a brightness bold as the lipstick my mother wore no matter the day or the time, no matter how close to the end she got, even two days before the last, the young dark-haired nurse applying it for her while I sat nearby, my own lips trembling, from fear or hope I could not tell, I could not separate anything, and can’t now either — the bright flame of this bird recalling me to loss, or to joy.
This poem first appeared in Marrow of Summer, by Andrea Potos, published by Kelsay Books.
