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.