I do not know for sure if there was blood
or downy feathers mixing with the rage
that sheltered in my ribs, the ruby of
my heart askance, so crushed within its cage.
The bird flew headlong, smashed into the glass
as voices sliced, kept rising, as we blurred
the highway blindly, headed for the coast,
a metaphor too obvious, absurd.
Perhaps it happened this way, perhaps not.
I cannot know if memory is life
or living memory, only that I
cringed into the seat, swallowed the knife, spent
decades unlearning what I learned of love
the moment our car hit that single dove.