Don’t Look Away

by Liz Bruce

When cold wind gives permission 

to tears I imagine you ask 

what the matter is, I imagine I point 

to the lilac sky of dusk or the roadside 

corpse of a bird or rodent to place 

some blame. As a child, I found a dead 

squirrel sprawled on the yellow lines, still 

warm and rounded in its bristly curves. 

Summer and I were moved to take 

the creature in our hands, place it against 

the base of a hemlock, on the edge 

of asphalt, dirt, and dry grass. 

Even today I think of Summer 

at twelve, how she didn’t hesitate,

how, like my grandmother kissing 

my grandfather's face as he turned 

cold, she touched death like a familiar 

friend, made grace out of soil 

and leaves. So while they are still

alive, I pick up baby snakes, chase chipmunks 

and fishcrows from the sidewalk to the 

woods, and if I get caught in the net 

of my heartache walking home, I know 

that I can scan the street for bird bones, open 

my eyes to the wind, allow myself 

to cry over them, and if you ask, 

my love, I’ll blame it 

on the gloaming and the roadkill.