The Bird
       

They brought it from the wetlands around Fitri—
a gray-crowned crane, as tall as I was then,
neck stiffened with muscle, body
built upon stick legs and far on high
the beak, all-seeing eyes, and crest
of gold strands ringing skull rim. The bird
made the patch of yard by the guesthouse
its domain, settling under papaya trees, water
reservoir, gasoline barrels, staring through
the break in the wall to the central
yard where visitors came, drank tea, made
small talk about the new family member, and left.

For the few nights we had it, I crossed
the yard, saw it in the corner, standing,
its bead eyes following my figure.
It was as if the life had been taken out of it—
wouldn't drink, hardly ate—and on the third day,
my friend's face downturned with sadness, Moussa
lifted the death-stiffened bird in dawnlight.

I do not know where he took it.
Maybe he buried it among the papaya roots,
shoots springing from featherweight bones, or—
perhaps this is truer—the bird burned
in the rusted-out hulk of a diesel barrel,
the one we always used to turn trash into ashes:
sparks taking flight, let loose as the full moon
lingers with us and the street children sing to it.

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Copyright © 2018 Aaron Brown All rights reserved
from Acacia Road
Silverfish Review Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission