Karen Greenbaum-Maya


Naked as a dead leaf,
scrap of bird with a bone-needle beak
curved to thread flowers.
Cat’s cuff knocked it out of the air.
She sits kitty-loaf, running her motor,
accelerating bird-life while the grass trembles.
Be safe in a shoe box for an hour.
For the live-wire beak, a corn syrup bubble.
Now up on spidery claws, dark eye to an air hole.
I swing the box up as reminder of flight,
and the bird falls up into the sky.

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