she couldn’t walk; she couldn’t stand. i held her tiny life in my two hands.
the mother and the others, gone by night away. this one left in the nest in the light of the day. no pity, no guilt, no nudge of that ilk. a judgment: not strong enough, not worth the milk.
tiny mews. plaintive, not complaint. a little muse. the smallest saint.
the mound of my palm is as high as she’ll climb. a warmbloodeducation in a mayfly’s time. so i told her the stories of Sekhmet and Bast, the aftell of the sun’s first rise, the foretale of the last.
buried in the garden, soil for the sage. a prayer, a promise; the words of this page.