Final Nesting Box

You lay in the wooden cot, a broken sparrow, Crushed. Bony. Frail. Hair once plumed gold, greyed to clumped feathers like ragged trampled wings, strawed out on the dank pillow. Face once blushed pink plump, Jolly kind of soft with life, Sucked to bone. Nose to Beak. Echoes of the mask it will soon become. I stroked this woman now bent back to foetus pose. Once sworled to shell, wrapped inside myself, Safe. Now boned to carcass stick. I wanted to hold one more time, my child, frightened the last air would puff to nought from its hollowed breast. But my sparrow turned and smiled, a grimace to crack open any gates of envisaged hell. Macabre teeth, once glowing love and laughter to the skies, Now pecked to ochre stalks. The pitiful bird pained to move. Mucous mouth clacked open wide To receive some lasting morsel of life. Only its beady blue gaze flashed a soul of its former self, eyes to haunt the sea. I swallowed back my tide of tears, waves of memory flooding sands of life we’d shared, from fledgling dawn cry to this, the final nesting box. I wanted to stuff this cot with down of a million eider. To cosset and hold soft this scrawn, gnawed through. Pluck teal, goose, swan. ‘Who would have thought it would come to this?’ it croaked a laugh. I matched smile with smile. I held the tiny claw. Desperate not to cling too much to pain, too much to past. I wanted to wrap up this dying bird Limp, in my hanky. White folded white, fold on fold. Run through the streets shouting at the world, at some unseen power. NO. She’s mine. She’s safe. Take me. What cruelty did I do? What evil must be stuffed in this maternal breast To hold this daughter dust in my arms?