This morning I opened
the front door
to take out the trash
and saw a bird
dead, almost invisible
against the gravel
and returned
to the kitchen
where I found
two discarded
plastic bags
one for my hand
that will pick
up the bird
to deposit into the other
and that is what
I did
exactly
and I saw
its grey neck
flopping, broken
and it was proof
of what I
had anticipated--dreaded--
as I'd moved
to pluck the bird
from its demise
and the proof
made me consider
once again
why a human
would wish to
be God
in control
of others
when that power
also means
you will know
the feeling
of holding
a corpse
small enough
to fit within
a palm, huge
as befits a God
's hand
which will allow
destruction
and not flinch
from caressing
Aftermath
***
A true story: the event occurred this morning. What also happened that I thought might make it into the poem but didn't -- and it's always interesting to see what gets left out, di ba? -- is how I had crooned at the bird as I picked it up and deposited it into a Baggie, "Bird Spirit, leave your body behind. Fly up now towards the sky [here I looked up at the sky, beautiful in its blueness this morning]. You are now free, not locked within this body." And I kept crooning that because I loathed the idea of the Bird [Spirit] being placed, along with other debris, into the garbage--the other trash bag I was holding contained smelly cat litter! And I made sure to take my time zippering up the Baggie in case the Bird Spirit needed more time to leave its bird body ...
... interesting. True. A detail I thought for sure would be in the poem. But left out of the poem which became mostly, it seems, about its second half. The poem always transcends the poet's autobiography.
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