Zugunruhe

/ First Place, 2025 Plentitudes Prize in Poetry /

Zugunruhe

n., Migratory restlessness

I counted your breaths on my fingers: six

per minute. Seconds of silence in between.

Every four hours, nurses pressed morphine

into your mouth or the crook of your arm.

Good Catholics believe that flesh becomes

reunited with the soul like a lost coat.

Your eyes locked on the ceiling all waking hours.

If it was God, you were not happy to see him.

Yellowthroats know the precise angle of sunset

that indicates oncoming winter. They prepare.

I listened to clips of death rattles and tried to

compare them to your breath without success.

You would shout at night, wordless, tossing your

blankets and gown to the ground like they burned.

Migratory birds remember where they are born

and return. They make home into a verb, homing.

You kept your valuables in an igloo cooler:

a pair of sunglasses, a wallet, keys to nothing.

Gotwits absorb portions of their organs, their liver,

kidneys, digestive tract, in order to pack on fat.

An aunt tried to feed you while you slept.

She held your mouth open like one would a child’s.

I filled out a form: cremation, scattering tube, body

of water, three miles out, private service. Signed in pen.

You did not want a grave. You wanted

open blue. You wanted endless movement.

Indigo Buntings travel by the stars

and internal compasses like sailors.

In Spring, they begin to sing at night, molting,

getting aggressive. Orienting north, even if caged.

I did not ask for a priest for you.

You needed no such navigation.