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Amalee Aug 2018
The bird peeped as I scooped it into my hands,
And scared me with its frantic flapping,
Falling a few feet, but it could fly,
At least enough to give me hope
That maybe it could survive
And spare me the decision to execute it
Or leave it to be slowly killed by the cat.

Long feathers scattered on the carpet,
Its small toes curled tightly,
One foot was pointed upward and out.
How I wish I were a small bird doctor,
Able to heal its hollow bones,
Not fearing that when I set it free,
It would be eaten alive.

Outside, another cat,
And you, fearful under my fingers,
Let me carry you as I walked in circles,
And when my circles stopped
I placed you at the base of a thin tree where,
After a motionless moment, you flew
Like a bad paper airplane.

My love, I wonder about the bird,
Whether it was eaten by ants,
And I worry whether we’ll know when
It's the last time we’re making love,
So we can **** insatiably,
Like poor sinners at our last meal.

Dearest, when your body is broken,
Will I walk in circles,
Fearing what comes next for you,
Worried that the best was not the last?
Constructive criticism is welcome.

— The End —