The Bruised Bird
The black cat was a mercy I couldn’t give.
Two years she reached through bars
with patient claws, marking
each white feather dark, each bright day
bruised. The cage held dying, not living—
thin wires promising safety
while offering only delay.
I watched her practice
on all four, teaching me
what love looks like
when it can’t protect:
a slow scratching toward the inevitable,
wings beating against their own bones,
song turning to the small sounds
prey makes when mercy
wears a black coat and will not hurry.
The fourth one taught me this—
that sometimes the killer
is kinder than the keeper,
that claws are cleaner
than the prolonged kindness of bars,
that the hand that built the cage
holds more blood than the mouth
that finally opened it.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
