birdshot

birdshot

The soul takes flight to the world that is invisible…

                                                Plato

            Is it instinct, tell me, is it? to look up

when a soft body goes solid, when that last

breath’s expelled, goes, and the yo-yo

up and down of the lungs finally- broke- after- the- long- fray

or cut, or the toy’s dull rub or

roll- bounce- roll is in the air, it’s habit, right?

to look up? and guess

who’s chariot crow

swoops in and then, empty, away? her black

demand amended for something like this:

            the eight and the four

under the water after their abrupt float go

down down in their own time to bottom.  Their pockets

thieved by the water, or even just their last

spastic SAVE ME sobs, soon only a sigh,

soon just something children wave their arms in.

But my question.  I have a question.  Because I’ve had to

look up, and only, look, I tell you,

only just now did I wonder: if a body dies

            under the ground, or under water:

can that soul fly out?, or does it have to go

down?,

can it even float?, get to the top?, or does it become something other

than air, something mineral, or a lead sinker,

lead enough for a loon,

breast beneath the wing?

and that make-believe gun the older boys aim?, the one that tips the boat,

when the loon dips and disappears,  

and they are on their way, , ,

to meet her?