Anina Moore

Cold Spring: III

                                                Did I

ever tell you that it was during a drive
over that bridge that my mother

told me of the death, states away,
of my childhood friend? He’d

survived the crush of a tree trunk
falling into his pelvis, chainsaw

running illiterately in the dirt next
to him, but a year later a gunshot

wound at home only ever referred to
as an accident bled out his

femoral artery onto the linoleum.
The mole near his mouth gone to

dust now, also the hand that drew
the few moldy sketches of birds

I keep. When I die, no one will know
what they mean.