The Birds Migrated in May

It was a quiet year,

The cicadas stay underground,

And I held the girl tight to my chest.

She didn't know she was held,

But she was held, tight as the leaves

On the white-pink bush outside her front door,

She was held, but she'd already

Run laughing down the street,

Cut her hair and drunk half a bottle

Of cheap-homemade cider.

I knew her face but I didn't see

Her looking at me like

I was cold gravel and cheap perfume.

Still, I held the girl tight to my chest

And hoped she’d hold me back.

But night fell and the birds migrated in May

And I sat crying in the elementary school parking lot.

I held myself tight to my chest,

Turned down the music and opened the windows

To hear the wrens and chickadees

And thrushes on the power lines.

The birds migrated in May.

It was a quiet year,

And I held the girl deep in my throat.

Ryan Witter