“How The Robin's Breast Became Red”

by Aimee Nezhukumatathil

I know someone will say it’s more rust
or even orange. The glow of a campfire.
A stub of cigarillo thrown on the street.

More like the center of a tulip, a guitar
of the man I love. Robins will never suffer
a corpse to remain unburied but instead,

cover the body with leaves, bits of string.
I never believed when I heard a robin’s breast
first splashed red when it tried to pluck out

the thorns from Christ’s brow. But yesterday
I saw this bird – its head feathers
a little mussed, a little too distressed.

Even cats shied away from it, as if they
too knew not to harm that winged heart.
I wonder if it had just finished another

sad business – if someone once exposed
and alone is now wrapped – stitched neatly
into this ground with beak, wing, air.