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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.

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