Shelly Reed Thieman
Burial

Here, at the foot of a bed of wild
flowers, a small bird with a chest 
the color of sweet corn, its eyes 
thrown open like windows.

I cup it in my hands, warm
it with wisps of breath,
whisper soft mantras
of safety, love, surrender.

It is not breathing you say
and I continue my benediction,
my quiet dirge of humming,
my crescendo of tears.

Wings sprout from my back.
I flap them, rise like the contrail 
of an incense stick and slam
myself into a stained glass window.

The sun turns into a tangerine
and dusk swallows it whole.
You are not breathing you say
and lay me to rest in a bed 
of  stargazer lilies.