Pretty Little Dead Thing—
Sky Creature Hit Ground,
you were always invincible to me,
above the Earth’s cruel touch,
but It has taken you.
I dream now of cupping your small body in my palm,
my hand slowly rising to my face
your spindly legs coming unbent beneath you,
dangling limply as my thumb
smooths the feathers on your head.
I can almost feel your warmth—
your heart pulsing
you are softly breathing through your nostrils,
shifting lightly against my hand.
Then, I feel the bones inside your body
beneath your flesh: delicate, crushed.
I see eyes like beads sewn into your skull,
needle piercing, black thread looping through.
I move, retracting,
from the broken body on the lawn.
Your head is turned from me,
tail feathers flat against the dirt.
Your voice empty of song;
body empty of soul.
You are bright as a cardinal, bluejay, or goldfinch
dark as the crow and light as the dove.
you are a pretty little dead thing:
material yet incorporeal;
you are my Everything yet
Nothing at all.