The American Tree Sparrow

Dead! Beneath this oak tree,
wearing a leaf like a pillbox hat—
its veil, assuring
private darkness.  

Beauty. Such a sealant
for tragedy. What feathers—
fine calico—and what
a sharp beak,
peeking.

I dreamt once—this bird in my bed
cocooned in a pocket of the mattress,
stuffed stiff as if with woodchips.

And finally, I had a choice,
a chance! Once my sister
had buried the pigeon
in our grandmother’s garden,
but now—I found the spade,

thin and undented. And I broke
the dirt from the earth. And I—
I found my sister’s whistle
and a lock of hair

that grew as I yanked it.
And I knew—I could never
bury this bird.

Originally published in Aegis.