Every spring before I fell in love with you
I inevitably found a dead robin at my feet.
As robins mate for life I took this as some sad omen
of another lonely year
and when you did leave I was certain
red-breasted birds would drop at my feet from the sky like blood
sticky teeth from God’s own mouth.
I read once that losing teeth in dreams is a subconscious
fear of losing one’s beauty.
It has been 2 years.
So far the road is still not paved with crimson feathers.
So far you are still gone.
So far I am still beautiful.