James Miller

Dead Birds

Mother’s friends drop off,
rarely of rare disease. Cancer
crowds the casseroles.

You’re back in town, she insists
on a visit with the widower. Remember?
Every Christmas his company pickup

brought your flocked tree home
for slow drought and needle weep.
Every weekday after-school

you chewed cookies, grogged
root beer and hung with Lost in Space,
mint-misted in ‘77 and ’78.

Teacher moms crowed and coffeed
at the kitchen table. And he?
Afternoon shifts at Exxon or Arco,

but nobody asked. Now you’re sharing
an afternoon’s livingroom afterlife.
He says: I thought I would go first.

Tumor talk next, though nothing
about the liftings, from toilet to sheet,
sheet to toilet. He asks: Have you seen

my collection of belt buckles?
You follow to the guest room, pillows
plumped for the next wake.

Shaved shelves fill a blank wall, twelve
stained grooves laid wide as a bedframe.
Dozens of beauties gleam—his hand

has shined and shared each one. ‘68
Houston Rodeo bridles, Spindletop derricks,
Big Thicket bramble. Months later

you hear he’s dating, dancing
with an old-new name. A year
(or two) after: concussed

at Target, Ace hardware,
O’Reilly. Bruise on the brain.
You held only two buckles

in your hands, brushed
both thumbs across
dead birds in dead bayous.