Public Republic

Anca Vlasopolos

Photo: chefranden

on October 9, 5769,
Atonement Day,
the thrush stood in the middle of Lakeland
the street that takes me
where I face St. Clair
to cast once more
my bread upon the waters

stood there
unmoving
ready to be hit
by passing cars

let me scoop up its olive body
weight no more than
a fallen leaf
pink legs propped against my palms
eyes blinking at the sun
as if stunned by this autumnal brilliance

as I peered to look for signs
of hurt
it lifted itself in one swift motion
from cradling hands
flew sure and straight
for shelter under shrubs

minuscule mortal god I
for just this day
this hour
this minute
held the power
to write
this migrant
in the Book of Life