UNTITLED, FOR A BIRD | Samantha Stewart
I stepped over the fray of feathers
to gather a bag and paper towel
to collect them not touch them
the two clutching feet
a tiny glistening organ
and remains of gentle body with tufts
of yellow and green
my own cat comes up to greet me
as I write this and I loathe and love
her in equal parts
the bird is me and I am the cat
the numb human who keeps a pet
for company
I am the child and the parent
I am the harm and the injury
I am trying to undo this as I pinch
the pieces into the bag that I will
drop into the bin in the alley
no more! I say. I imagine rubbing
my cat's face into it and yelling
but know the utter confusion of it
as I dream it
To be broken and small and beautiful
To stand by something broken and small
To hurt in an ugly way
I listen to the water boil and bury this all
inside me, inside this poem. Tuck it with
feathers and sunlight and bile
a rough nest of dirty life
nest knocked by eucalyptus branch
branch knocked by winter rain
and we are all still here
small and broken and beautiful
Samantha Stewart is a psychiatrist in Los Angeles. She lives with her husband, 3 children and their cat, Cookie.