A Girl and Her Cat

Warbler's Requiem

The robin's neck is broken
its beak splintered orange
having met
something harder than itself.
My youngest girl whispers
"She's sleeping."
Big sister knows better.
"Can we bury it?"
The toe of her boot,
the mud-caked suede gray-brown like feathers,
curiously nudges the spent bird.
Its soft roundness
gives way like overripe fruit
and she withdraws her boot
her face blank as snow.
I dig the hole under the holly tree
where the snowdrops have opened
and lower the once bird.
"Awww," says the little one.
"Ew," says the bigger one.
We sing it a song.
It notices nothing--
not the song
not the mocking worm swimming pinkly
in the freshly turned earth
not the tears on the oldest girl's cheeks
or that the little one has already run off,
already forgotten the robin.

For One Shot Wednesday

Try Again Later

I'm not ready.
I've changed my mind.
I stare at the curtain behind you
try to close my mind to you
push closed
the heavy door within
lower the splintered bar across it
barricade it
with a peeling, painted wrought iron table
two deck chairs
my high school science teacher
and remnants
of clinging Christianity.
Please go away.
I peer through the glowing crack.
I don't see you
but please don't look
so sad.


For One Shot Wednesday