He pressed a small arm to his rib cage and trapped a bird inside,

the smile on his face as bright as the pink in his lips;

A momentary flash of guilt-like pleasure coming to

his grin, quick and fading,

like the warmth draining

from his skin.

Though,

he is alone

and allowed his sumptuousness.

 

The bird freshly red, squirms like the worm hanging from its beak

or more, the remnants smeared across its cheek;

Half of the segmented body still twitching,

as if in efforts to shake off

the last few parcels

of life—

the bird had only

one bite.

 

A tiny, opalescent jewel covered in dust,

dirt, and the grime of this boy’s two

small

hands, the bird sees; the cruel smirk of his grin

and how he tightens his arm just to hear it wheeze.

That boy, a martinet in a scarf;

with the cocoa his mom made still on his breath,

indifferent

to fading lights

and broken bird ribcages.

Or the gray feathers that began to fall

like cigarette ashes by his side.

 

He sits on the icy skirt of an oak tree, glances at

the windows of his house,

those pregnant with life;

As the bird glances

upward, and seeks something like

home, too—

In the silver laced sky

and spider web branches;

The half-dead winter trees beginning to sway,

pulling wind through their fingers;

Soft and low

like a prayer.

 

The bird allowed

its eulogy.

 

The lament a resurrection, bringing temporary

life back into the little bird body;

Gentle as a sigh, or sunlight breath upon its brow

The tree folk bending at their waists

to bring the melody closer;

Knowledge locked in their kneecaps

and sorrow pouring from

their mouths.

This type of destruction,

steeped and buried,

many years ago.

 

How the boy absentmindedly picks at his gloves

and pulls his scarf tight around blistering lips,

the pale skin of his fingers and forearms

turning light hues of blue;

Losing color like the bird,

or becoming

much like it.

 

As the wind’s whistle begins to sound

a bit too bitter to bear,

he stands;

dropping the now lifeless stone

with a dispassionate palm,

hearing nothing of the noise

The Megacosm Symphony,

he had composed—

with those two

small hands.

 

-D.N.B 1/30/13 edited:  3/28/13