Kimberly Ann Southwick
SIRENS IN THE DISTANCE, DOWN THE SHORE
a female cardinal is clicking her chirp
on the telephone wire, and the dogs
are not pleased at the attention their leash-holders
are telling them not to pay her. off-red and full of blood
she’s a soft-bellied temptress who wants only what’s best
for the little cluckers in her nest, so she sings.
her mate is darker red, but not near. with the breeze
she is aflight. the day extinguishes as she disappears
behind the neighbors’ roof. alone, the dog and i wait
on the porch for the boys. when they arrive, the heat
off their bodies smells like the sun. i have turned up the music
and figured a way to make them stay. later, joey and i
lie on the king-sized bed, guinevere and lancelot,
with the german shepherd down the middle like a sword.