The Country

The Country

We wrap her in a blanket, nurse
her with yogurt, drops of water,
anything, force antibiotics
into her mouth and hope
she swallows. She hates us
for our violation, but the worry is too great
for manners. Through the window,
with her squirming in my arms,
I count seven butterflies, fluttering,
yellow with black spots, stripes,
Hollywood to a lepidopterist, perhaps,
but moving to me. Overgrown Russian sage
envelopes the porch, the French doors, bees
float, whole flocks of birds I can't name
descend, together, like some sort of tide.
In the evenings, deer graze like
cattle, unafraid. Again and again, I wonder:
how could anything die here?

C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on his site Murder Your Darlings

(originally appeared in Borderlands)