9:12pm, November 7th. The day afterwards.
All I know as I bury it under the bush - as I come inside afterwards and make tea like I'm not strangely hollow after putting its small, song-quiet body in the ground - is how to be is numb. My friends are so far away. So are the strangers I wish I could console, but I don't even know what to say to myself. The back door is open. Crickets rattle in the dark. Like keys in locks. I don't know what to do.
I don't know what to do.
So I write.
Today I buried a blackbird
Who had fallen in the dirt.
Body soft with warmth still leaving,
Absent of another’s grieving -
Today I buried a blackbird
In a silence full of hurt.
Today I buried a blackbird
But my arms to dig were poor.
Dry soil lay unwilling
To make a space for loss to fill in;
Today I buried a blackbird,
Too aware she deserved more.
Today I buried a blackbird.
Everything but her eyes.
The ants had eaten, one by one,
Still more dignity than a bullet and gun;
Today I buried a blackbird,
Air emptied of her cry.
Today I buried a blackbird,
Heart-numb at end of day.
This was once a mother’s child,
To nest belonged yet fully wild;
Today I buried a blackbird,
Because some loves can’t be saved.
Tonight I grieve a blackbird,
Though I am jealous she is free.
Heart beats rib with angry wings
Knowing too well why caged sister sings.
Tonight I grieve a blackbird,
But I buried part of me.
© Erin Brown, 2024
Comments