When we were girls, we weren’t supposed to look adults in the eyes, and when we did, we could barely stand the intensity, felt like we were too close to a human kind of flame.
O bobolink. The bobolink is dead /
at my door — found leaving my apartment / to school then to work. After some searching, /
I guess it’s a bobolink—this lemon- /
headed crow, this crumpled parachute cloth.