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What My Mother Does After My Father's Death
She finds a bird
fallen from its nest,
crashed like an apple
to the ground.
Sliding her fingers through
the rain soaked grass,
she scoops the quivering
ball of feathers into her palm.
She takes it inside, to the same kitchen
where she wept
over her dead husband
every night for nearly a decade.
She feeds it baby formula
from an eye-dropper, whispering
I believe in your wings.
I watch from behind a doorway,
the broken bird, its needful cries,
all of that delicate weight
resting on the kitchen table,
my mother,
her precious grief.
Copyright ©
Dana Fasciano
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