The warbler’s folded in my tongue
like a lemon drop. What joy
it is to trap a festival inside,
until the bird exerts her yellowness,
scratches blood and lifts through
my bright opening.
Light shines through her white undersides,
across her simple face.
The yellow speck sings like a guillotine
above a crush of dark-eyed swallowing.
A bloody sorrow to kiss a bird
goodbye, these lips tripped up, glossed
in worship, loss, the taste of wasted star.