Juncture
By Sarah Spath
Drive me past that bridge
drive past that tree on the river
where the birds gather twigs by the water
where the nests plump up in the branches.
I said yes.
We’ll cross, but I refuse to hold
my breath for luck, or have
your hand on my knee
when you brake
when my body doesn’t slow with yours.
Your eyes will continue on that road,
but I’ll blow rice from my hand
until the birds come near
until they swallow every grain
until it makes their bellies swell
until they die.
Except, they don’t.
I see them peck
at earthworms in the dirt.
A tail hangs
from a beak. See the other
half swell, and make a break
for the river.