dead cardinal 

i didn't know what to do with the red
so i made it into a kitchen knife
& walked it down to the old church.
there they use birds as hymnals.
an oak tree grows through the altar
& the altar boys are deer.
i stroked the red's face & remembered
what it was like to die. a searching
through azure pinwheel & then
a window. we bake pies until 
our fingers fall off. they are offerings 
for the red. apples & peaches & lemon.
the crusts golden brown. cracked earth.
my teeth as jupiter beetles & june bugs.
birch tree bark. broken bone.
the red used to sing from a sling shot.
used to hurl skulls at the attic.
whatever it used to do will have to be
taken up by the children.
we take notes on the backs of our hands 
but run out of space & thus
write the rest of the instructions
on our tongues. read the weather
for me. read the tea leaves. 
take the suite cases down
to the edge of the road. the red was 
a comfort or else maybe just a doorknob.
i would come & it would eat from
my hands. little folded beak. 
a moment between inverted gods.
feathers in my mouth. i make 
a thousand promises it wasn't me.
the red died of wanting a moon
to love & eat. don't we all?