Last Rescued Bird
Enough. Take your feathers
dead or alive and flutter into oblivion.
I’m done with the fractured wing,
the punctured lung, severed spine.
I will not weigh your soul
and account for all its cherished works.
Though your nest lies ruptured
and broken at my feet, all my remedies
are used up, finished, expired.
Mud no more, dear downy love.
Burn the twigs, the riffraff rags.
Let the cats loose.
Fetch the axe.
I’m cutting down the tree.
originally appeared in Crab Creek Review