The thud against the window
rushes Rita outside to find it,
its small, round head drooping
loosely when she picks it up.
Countless deaths in the world,
but it’s this one, held in her hand,
that we mourn, stroking its warm breast,
its dark eyes still open
that just a moment ago saw
a clear passage of light.
Copyright © 2018 by Paul Martin
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission
Southern Poetry Review is the second oldest poetry journal in the region, with its origins in Florida and subsequent moves to North Carolina and now Georgia. Continuing the tradition of editorial openness and response to writers that began with Guy Owen in 1958, SPR publishes poems from all over the country as well as from abroad and maintains a worldwide readership. Past issues feature work from Chana Bloch, Billy Collins, Alice Friman, David Hernandez, Andrew Hudgins, Maxine Kumin, Heather McHugh, Sue William Silverman, R. T. Smith, Eric Trethewey, and Cecilia Woloch.