the bird artist


The first bird was, by far, the best bird.  The tiny clicking of gears, 

    bright-eyed and warbling. In the workshop, a miracle that set the heart 

         into panic,  the frantic beat of its wings.  The children oohed and ahhed


while the creature banged again into the ceiling.  Dropped to the floor.

    Took turns fetching it from the corners. The sink.  Underneath the divan.  Still humming 

         and chirping.  The second bird wouldn't fly, though we oiled its wings  and whispered 


sweet nothings.  It sputtered on the table and fell into the trash.  The third was a monster, 

     hooked beak and ragged claw. Black as the back of the closet where the children

          hid it to frighten each other. Not even mothering could save it, terrible thing.

I buried when it nearly took one of their eyes.  But it kept rising up through the dirt,

     clogged with earth and leaves, Barely moving, it would croak all night

           from the garden, spite-filled and seething.  



 read it here...