Anatomy
by Evan Harrison
I used to look at you, robin, and see a robust red breast and smoky wings, feathers stolen from a building rusted by rain— now, I think too much about what has left. I see your tiny stomach and lungs, spoons of blood. Am I sickened or just shaken at the sallow ring around your pale heart, liver too pure in its red-purple, trachea like a stalk of headless flower? Pressed together, mess of wet machinery, you push me to the center in flights of fall-apart beauty.