Category Archives: writing

Little Bird

Little bird
Have you come down my chimney
For the delicate scent
Of daffodils on my table
Out of the cold
To this warmth
Of man and burning
Come peck the crumbs
Of my leftover breakfast
Come bathe in the spilled water
Which overturned
With heated words
Of fear and pain

Little bird,
Soft bit of color
Peer at the window
Your twin sits
Equally unsure
Free, but freezing
Or a reflection
Of what you have risked

Little bird
You plummeted down my chimney
Frozen wings stuck unable to move
Prune your feathers
Fluff them at this vent
Still yourself
Celebrate this moment
Of returning from the dead
But still, calm
So I may take this hammer
And strike your little head

 

I had this written in a dream. I know it’s a silly little thing, but I liked it. I wanted to start posting my silly little things more often.

Did she regret…

20140730-181903-65943573.jpg All the late-night adventure stories, turning herself into the hero of each. Love stories she whispered of the sweetest: the first love, when each touch was an embrace, each slap a display of affection. Should she have explained the wisdom which comes only with age. The knowledge that love doesn’t hurt, that possession and desire needn’t go hand in hand, that those we love would not shut us out from those who love us. A child’s understanding of love, and she allowed it to thrive in her daughter’s heart.

These stories she had convinced herself were fairy tales, for her own sake, for her husband’s, her daughter’s. She had told them over and over, had laughed at parts she now realized were full of dread, of deadly terror, of DEATH. Now she saw her stripped innocence and her daughter’s same loss.

This return–unchanged, seemingly un-aged–to steal away her child. This guilt, heavy and pulling, because mingled with the fear and desperate longing for her daughter was a jealous rage, all that she had left behind and her own failure to be taken again. Should she have expected him to seek for her: strands of gray, a new sagginess to every part of her body. Knowing she could be so easily replaced by her own daughter. It was two kidnappings: the child, and the dream-child she once was.

Her husband’s hands, which had taught her, daily, the truth of love, the gentleness of desire, sought to give comfort that was unavailable. They spoke with the authorities who would no more find their child than she could. And she kept quiet, knowing that to tell the truth would make him fly just as far to escape her wickedness.