Breathless

Photo: Sonja Rosing

Once I felt the pulse
of a dying songbird,

my finger softly pressed
to its throat.

Gray dappled wings,
yellow belly—

a European tit
(een meesje, my father said).

Life hid under its feathers,
inside flesh.

The tit had flown into
our living room window,

then dropped
to the patio, stunned.

My father picked up
the limp body, placed it

in a shoe box.
Together, we pricked

the lid with holes
so the tit could breathe.

We used one of my mother’s
silver knitting needles.

I’d learned in school, Better
one bird in the hand

than ten in the bush.
But ten birds in a bush sing.

This tit lost its warmth
in the hollow

of my father’s palm.
Now it lay sideways

in its box, silent.
With one finger I felt

how death hid
in the still tepid flesh,

neck like wire
slightly bent.

The beautiful blue
feathers still

brushed up alive
when I blew on them.

All afternoon,
I kneeled next

to a songbird,
pursing my lips.

Included in audio format in TelePoem Booth, Iowa
at PACE, Pottawattamie Arts, Culture and Entertainment Center, Council Bluffs, Iowa