by Diana M. Chien

Angels descending could not be worse
than this, the nightingale tearing the evening
sky to pieces with its long criss-crossing flight.
The sky a fragrant yellow like a spilling of wine,
the promised evening long and cool as a satin ribbon.
The farmhouse snug in the yard. The woods
dark in the distance. And then the nightingale,
descending and delivering over
and over its liquescent song, a thing
wound-up and wounding like a bright
metal spring.

In the farmyard the children scream.
Mother, bring a knife. The nightingale
is only a comma in the night now.