B is for Bird
My parents must have known
three hatchlings in the nest
blown from our maple tree
wouldn’t survive.
But they gave us an eye dropper and warm milk,
took grainy photos of the pink bodies,
and told us the eyes, still gray stones,
would open soon.
When they removed the bodies, one by one,
my sister couldn’t let go.
She drank grief from broken shells.
Blue veins spoke just beneath her skin
until they didn’t.
Somewhere between kingdom and family lies order.
A vault of tainted nests.
A spring orchard budding cold stars.
An alphabet ripped of images so children create
their own taxonomy of loss.
