When I saw the loblolly pine,
       

its furrowed bark, I knew I was close
to fully understanding when a bird
is gone it's gone, the last one,
the end, done, as my daughter
used to say, like the Carolina parakeet,
menace removed from having a name
in Seminole: pot pot chee. Kelinky
in Chickasaw. Pest that got in the way
of tobacco and cotton, adornment
for a lady's hat, an index card's
worth of grief. Their greatest fault:
returning to the place where one
had been shot, otherwise known
as unfortunate flocking behavior.
From the perspective of the moon,
. it looks familiar, doesn't it? Returning
and returning to the small-scale
garden plot where your dead brother
lay, scent of dying like a rotting rowboat
beside the Pascagoula Quik Mart.
There's no fundraiser big enough
to bring them back, no amount
of money to pledge. Because
they loved corn, tore open
apples to reach the seeds,
because their distress calls
could be heard for miles,
there's a little less wonder
along the Perdido River.

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Copyright © 2019 Martha Silano All rights reserved
from The Cincinnati Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission