01-07-2015, 07:56 AM
She flew squawking from the kitchen
to land on my shoulder. She brought me
the tiny burden of her death.
I caught her up, hugged her
as if I could hold it off;
I breathed into her lungs,
pumped her wings,
tears blinded me
but she wouldn’t come back. I held
her; limp body, neck swinging loose
as if broken, feathers disarrayed
as she would never have them, eyes
shuttered, then closed.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly
she faded to cold.
This morning when she hopped
onto my hand, her feet felt cool
instead of their usual warm.
Should I have been warned?
Now she’s buried, wrapped
in a pink silk chemise of mine,
under the pohutukawa near the tui’s nest
and a blackbird is singing
her tangihanga.
I’m putting away her things. I need
to list them before she’s gone altogether.
First, I put her seed dish outside
for the sparrows and finches, blackbirds
who’ll miss her daily leftovers. I’ll fill it
every day until the bags of seed
run out.
Her water bowl has rejoined
odd garden stuff. She’d floated
one of her toys - the bowl
of an old wooden spoon -
in it this morning.
I don’t know why.
Her swing
with concrete perch to help
trim her claws, her mirror with dangling bell
that never chimed, just clunked,
the boiled lamb bone for her beak,
the cuttlefish, the shell grit - all into the garbage
with the half-explored apricot, the sampled-but-not-finished
apple, the eggplant end, cabbage bone, lettuce leaf, the chewed
and splintered wooden spoon handle, the honey
dripper with its grooves neatly rounded.
Her spirit is still imprinted there
but it’s fading. A fly
just landed on the cage bottom.
Now I bend and fold the sprig of leaves
from the big gum on the corner by Ian’s house
near the railway lines - it still has a few
gum nuts on it, not yet chewed.
She smelled of eucalyptus when I breathed her in
just before I put her in the ground
and covered her
just an hour ago, just this morning.
Her ladder - she was scared of it at first
but climbing the cage walls hurt her feet
and the ladder made it easier. I lean it
where she’s buried.
I throw away her other mirror, that I’d taken
from my mother’s nursing home - a folding
double vanity mirror I’d hooked to the cage
with a key ring from Las Vegas.
Matilda died this morning. Already in the past.
Last things - that flower John brought her
from Porirua, whose name I still don’t know.
It grew at his place. Tuis and kakas loved it too.
He brought her some each Friday for months;
it had just finished flowering, these were
the last stems.
A wilted fag-end of a carrot. The newspaper
dated December 4. A dried-up locquat
and a few feathers. She’d finished her molt
just in time to die
and the pink-and-grey rose-covered comforter
I’d bought new when Mum was still alive
that had covered her cage every night
that I lifted every morning
to let the world back in.
I won’t need that again.
(thank you A D Hope for ‘the tiny burden of her death’ from Death of the bird.)
The original thread and comments can be found here
to land on my shoulder. She brought me
the tiny burden of her death.
I caught her up, hugged her
as if I could hold it off;
I breathed into her lungs,
pumped her wings,
tears blinded me
but she wouldn’t come back. I held
her; limp body, neck swinging loose
as if broken, feathers disarrayed
as she would never have them, eyes
shuttered, then closed.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly
she faded to cold.
This morning when she hopped
onto my hand, her feet felt cool
instead of their usual warm.
Should I have been warned?
Now she’s buried, wrapped
in a pink silk chemise of mine,
under the pohutukawa near the tui’s nest
and a blackbird is singing
her tangihanga.
I’m putting away her things. I need
to list them before she’s gone altogether.
First, I put her seed dish outside
for the sparrows and finches, blackbirds
who’ll miss her daily leftovers. I’ll fill it
every day until the bags of seed
run out.
Her water bowl has rejoined
odd garden stuff. She’d floated
one of her toys - the bowl
of an old wooden spoon -
in it this morning.
I don’t know why.
Her swing
with concrete perch to help
trim her claws, her mirror with dangling bell
that never chimed, just clunked,
the boiled lamb bone for her beak,
the cuttlefish, the shell grit - all into the garbage
with the half-explored apricot, the sampled-but-not-finished
apple, the eggplant end, cabbage bone, lettuce leaf, the chewed
and splintered wooden spoon handle, the honey
dripper with its grooves neatly rounded.
Her spirit is still imprinted there
but it’s fading. A fly
just landed on the cage bottom.
Now I bend and fold the sprig of leaves
from the big gum on the corner by Ian’s house
near the railway lines - it still has a few
gum nuts on it, not yet chewed.
She smelled of eucalyptus when I breathed her in
just before I put her in the ground
and covered her
just an hour ago, just this morning.
Her ladder - she was scared of it at first
but climbing the cage walls hurt her feet
and the ladder made it easier. I lean it
where she’s buried.
I throw away her other mirror, that I’d taken
from my mother’s nursing home - a folding
double vanity mirror I’d hooked to the cage
with a key ring from Las Vegas.
Matilda died this morning. Already in the past.
Last things - that flower John brought her
from Porirua, whose name I still don’t know.
It grew at his place. Tuis and kakas loved it too.
He brought her some each Friday for months;
it had just finished flowering, these were
the last stems.
A wilted fag-end of a carrot. The newspaper
dated December 4. A dried-up locquat
and a few feathers. She’d finished her molt
just in time to die
and the pink-and-grey rose-covered comforter
I’d bought new when Mum was still alive
that had covered her cage every night
that I lifted every morning
to let the world back in.
I won’t need that again.
(thank you A D Hope for ‘the tiny burden of her death’ from Death of the bird.)
The original thread and comments can be found here
It could be worse
