This is for the bird that dips away
just before my car hits it in midflight. 

This is for the woman with the urge
to turn right on the bridge and resists
the river’s murky and cool waters. 

This is for the boy who can’t quit. 

This is for the nonbinary person in their car,
dry-heaving in the afternoon heat,
resuscitated.

This is for the lock and for the key,
for the bite and wound,
for those who’ve left,
for those who’ve stayed,
despite, well, everything.