I must have believed that soupy death
all dark and dreamy with the precision of night
the cut blade of infinite was not for you.
Your feathers dusted up a grief I couldn’t place
in my child world right and wrongness.
The bite mark in your back was enough to let you go by.
I remember thinking spinach might save you:
these feathers so dark they were green in the dim cave.
I kept you alive for days, then death swallowed you,
much as my dog had wished to, when he bit down
through plumage and bone; the damage was done –
but I had to test if love could hold you
much in the way I saved selected snails,
spent tenderness on earthworms you – hen – would happily have turned
into part of you. Your reflective eyes.