Red

Already overstocked with jam

from last July, we netted the cherry tree

to buy time, deepen its red before harvest,

black plastic threads a woven protection

from wild birds and fat ground squirrels.

Last night I found one of the latter tangled

and stiff in the net—likely killed

by the day’s heat or my curious dog

obsessed with chasing small things—

having failed to safely enter the hole I cut

last week to save a robin who hung

upside down all day, feathered Odin,

one leg extended and stiff, wild eyed,

red breast heaving with fight

and free wings. She clamped

her sharp beak on shaking fingers

and mosquito net sleeves as we toiled,

my thighs and back side already itching

with the onslaught of dusk’s usual pestilence,

for which I took no time to spray,

having just showered off the day’s oils,

on my way to address this tragedy.

You crouched there with me, aiming

the light, twitching, smacking ankles,

eventually admitting I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t

and retreated indoors. Desperate, bunching up

a fist of brand-new net above the bird,

I hacked a hole decisively, exposed

a breach, next week’s gaping, deadly door,

and brought the feathered thing inside.

I cradled her in a red kitchen towel.

You tenderly snipped with shears

fine black threads from the stiff leg,

her claw pointed like God’s finger

away from us, hunched and wincing

against futility, hoping this Hail Mary

was not too late, that blood might circulate,

reanimate the leg. When I released her

at the edge of the drive, she flew low into

the nearby lot of yucca, cactus, piñon, night.

Aloud, I worried she would die. You assured

me there are plenty of birds with bad legs

who survive, though you couldn’t name

one. I did not argue, knowing then you

love me enough to soothe me with half-truths,

hold me, later, in bed, sweating where we

touch, ignore the pulse of fresh, red bites.