Published by The Bookends Review, 2021

When the swallow abruptly crashes
into the attic bedroom window,
its limp body cascades down to
wintered earth in a
spray of shattered glass.

One by one, its sapphire feathers
are plucked away, nested into a stranger’s
tattered jacket pockets.

The first time my blood was drawn
my mother cradled my fevered head
in her lap. I hadn’t fully woken up
in weeks. All I can remember
is bleach-stained air, and iridescent
light bulbs flickering.

It’s past dark now, and
that swallow still sticks to concrete.

I could feel that, too,
the plucking.

Years later, I visited my grandfather
resting beneath a shroud of hospital-issued
linen blankets. Tubes and needles
linked him to monitors and fluid-filled
plastic bags. He told me the nurse
had the same name as me. He wondered
if it was a sign.

I remember the crumpled swallow,
my mother’s lap, my grandfather
fading in the sterile hospital.

Is this the way life ends—
cold, broken, and unfeathered?