Bird in the Hand


Inside the house,
I plucked
the sparrow, still alive,
from the cat's paws
with a clean, white towel.


With hesitation,
I peeled
back the towel
from around the bird,
smaller than my palm.


In horror,
I gasped
at the blob of blood
forming a quick-drying bubble
where once an eye had been.


Outside in the yard,
I stumbled
feeling drunk
holding the trembling bird up to the sky
like a sacrificial offering.


Sobbing out loud,
I cried
to the spirits
for healing
or a sign of this bird's fate.


Pulling him to my chest,
I gazed
desperately at the bird for answers.
He looked right back at me with his good eye
and shifted his weight in my hand.


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All poems copyrighted by the author, Tracey Besmark 1997©

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