Dead Bird

Not much left now but skull and beak,
A few feathers on hollow bones,
And the tiny, crab-like feet,
Once so inclined to cling to wires and limbs.

Does the song leave us when we die?
Will the soul suffer for the body’s guise?
I could stop here and begin to dance
Along the curb, throw up my arms

Under the great winter maples,
Like a wild man embracing his madness.
If I did, my neighbors would gather on porches,
Or look out windows, asking what was wrong with me.

How could I make them believe I have chosen
To have faith in the dead bird’s song.
Though the sweetness it brings to me,
May sound to others like grief.

*Michael P. McManus has published his poems in numerous publications including like Atlanta Review, Rhino, Texas Review, Louisiana Literature, Wind, Rattle, ONTHEBUS, Prism International, Poems & Plays, Midwest Quarterly, Comstock Review, Square Lake, Burnside Review, among others. His short stories have appeared in places like Contrary Magazine, Pittsburgh Quarterly, Gator Springs Gazette, Lichen Literary Journal, Dublin Quarterly, among others. He is the recipient of a Literature Fellowship from the Louisiana Division of the Arts.