The Bluebird

He held a hand in a hand,

Kneading the joints.

A tired etched bluebird looked north

Between thumb and forefinger,

The arch of its nose lost in folds of sunken skin.

He was at a loss, consumptive lungs begging

For the still chapel air

As they sang

How Great Thou Art.

He rose with the voices

In hanging black pants

And sought his voice, too

But it was lost in sickness and sorrow.

When it was over – when the weak light

Hid the mourners, a nurse’s arm

Fell to his shoulders,

A soft hand cradled the bird

 

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6 thoughts on “The Bluebird”

  1. Love this, John. You have caught the bird of sorrow perfectly ‘in the hand’ as it were. Reminds me of the pathos of Charles Bukowski somehow.

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