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by Ellaraine Lockie

How could I know
you'd be so upset
about the dead bird
on the dining table
Just a teenager
Probably out imbibing
Slugging down
pyracantha berries
Then drunk diving
the window
I kept its carcass
to share the sadness
and the beauty
Close, you could see
the red breast
bookended in black
Still, you could feel
the oil slicked feathers
Steal a sensuous stroke
Silent, you could hear 
the harmony of death
But you didn't
see the sadness
or observe the beauty
You felt the fear
of a drive home
after eight
bottles of beer
Of hands shaking
in a sales meeting
Of the plastic bag
that held the bird


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