Yes, I’m Really Leaving & No, I’m Not Keeping Your Things

By Isiah Fish

Take the buck that appears like a
nosebleed in the owl-filled womb
of night: a trembling, sudden
warmth washed cold by the blue-
white wind. 

Take the cardinal crushing
shells across the rusted
iron fence—its tufted scarlet
crest re-sings the hilled
house’s red shutters. 

Take the wind. How it spreads its
storm door crashing against the salt-box

Take the hill on Virgo
Street. How we looked up
at the unruly sky, its
clouds in simple animal
shapes we could name:
take the fawn, take the
foal, take the flamingo.

Take the salt truck shoveling snow to the

Take its high beams like a bright mouth
with bone-white teeth. 

Take downtown gleaming like an