Why There Are No Falcons in the Bardo
by Chrissy Mueller
There was a white bucket down in the crawlspace
where we kept the baby bird.
The heat lamp attached with a clamp,
Creating an Apollonian light,
An apocryphal sun on naked wings.
Nothing would live in that house.
Nor this bird I found dying in the street.
I nursed the creature as best I could
Through that closed womb-door of my youth.
I brought offerings,
in the tender hammock of my hands,
to the little life inside
that hopeful hospital of white,
It was a plastic coffin of light.
You did not become a falcon,
my little bird,
and I’m still here.
It's time to put away my magic,
Such haunted envelopes of light.
I am not ready for the Bardo.
About the Author
Chrissy is a Sears catalog wishing to be the moon. She has three children and loves to write poetry in her spare time.