Kirsten Casey

after Phoebe Bridgers “Moon Song”

I am not a dog with a bird at your door.

Really, I am the yellow bird in the mouth of a dog.

I am the color of marigolds in August, and I am still alive,

but I hold my breath. My feathers are almost

as light as my bones, which are full of the same air

as the sky. I can smell the dog breathing, his rotting back teeth

pressing against my skin, not too deep yet.

I am holding still, I am playing dead, I am thinking of eggs.

My eggs back in the nest: freckled, the palest blue. I spent so much

time collecting ribbons and twigs, made no

ordinary nest. I am thinking of the pine forest,

my daily route there. I am holding still, like the stones

I see in the river, unmoving in the current. I want to be as quiet

as moonflowers, pale blossoms unable to sleep

in the dark. I am holding still, but flying

in my thoughts. Maybe the dog is giving me

as some kind of limp offering, and I will end up

by a kitchen window, in a wrought iron cage, covered

with a dishtowel. I have seen birds like this,

birds that miss the rain. What an irony to be free, collecting

common worms, and then find myself in the jaws of a dog

who doesn’t have to hunt to survive. My eggs

will remain silent. Three fading moons, cold

and distant. I want to sing this sad song to my captor,

but it will only signal that I am still alive.

What could I trade him for my life?

I am holding still, because the killer

doesn’t understand.