by Steve Merino
We pass a dead chickadee on the sidewalk; a body
now more abandoned home, no less wild, all decay
& webbing veins, cracked beak & a thick stain,
scattered remains of the last meal like moons
finally giving up. It seems even birds have stopped
believing in the idea of freedom. Perhaps this bird
hit a window, chasing only reflection, imagining blue
as the final beginning. Or maybe the body didn’t yet
understand fragility. How easily a thing crumples
under pressure; paper tossed into a bonfire. Or lungs
filled with marbles, every breath a rattling of worlds.
In 5th grade we spent weeks studying the songs of birds
& maybe the point was to help us appreciate details,
how to identify loneliness in a language we
would never speak. We pass a dead chickadee & I
think of the lone bird, calling its own name constantly
outside our apartment window to only the sun.
Steve Merino (he/him) is a poet from Saint Paul, MN. His work can be found in Ghost City Review, Mineral Lit Mag, and elsewhere. A full list can be found on his linktree (https://linktr.ee/steve_merino). Follow him on twitter @steve_merino
