yvanna vien tica

"IN OUR FIRST SUBURB,"

a cardinal spilled blood-like into our birdbath / the squirrels knew
the shapes of our front door enough to flee when my father opened
away from the chipped screen / even the people’s smiles glinted
with history / one night, my parents left me with a woman from church
to reprieve their sorrowed back of the words and their sudden aches /
as if knowing, the woman loved me by helping stitch suitcases
out of my black hair / as if knowing, I suddenly heard the TV
in our living room call us names before exiting to a news reporter
rationalizing the outburst of breath / on our last day, the squirrels stopped
being afraid of my father / the birds were soon long gone / the last
thing I remember seeing through childlike eyes / a mirror / or
a dirty cardinal catching the rise of the wind, before marooning
lightly on the birdbath we couldn’t bring / ourselves to clean