Two Poems | Cody Tieman

Skydiving

A cardinal dove in front of my car,​​ 

or my car hit the diving cardinal.

In my rearview mirror, red feathers hovered

above the body, now pinned to the road.​​ 

During the remaining drive home,​​ 

I remembered two things:​​ 

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ 1.​​ Cardinals attack their own reflection,

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ obsessed with defending their nest.​​ 

At our first house, we found bodies

in the grass all through spring,

birds stormed at our windows,

not looking to break in,

as we once believed,

but to keep themselves out.

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ 2.​​ My​​ grandfather loved cardinals
 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and now his children frame
 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ their fallen feathers, gathering them
 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ en masse. Before I understood grief,
 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ I asked my aunts if they were
 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ constructing wings.​​ 

The Bath of Venus

On this day in history  ​​ you acquired a venomous spine

a stingray tattoo

​​ its barbed tail wrapped around your wrist.

Hot water quells a ray’s poison​​   

so I soak for hours each night​​ 

​​ remembering

​​ how you reached for me

in your unbuttoned silks  ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ composing lyrics on napkins,​​ 

(then laying them out like a quilt for our kitchen counter)

Soon

​​ I’ll shock out the fever of you

​​ with a boiling bath

teach my skin restraint

​​ with a liquid straightjacket

and hope there’s a hook in your mouth,​​ 

someone new

who can please the inked lines  ​​ ​​ ​​​​ of your smooth wings.​​