poems on grief, aging and loss 

by kerri lowe


A bird hung itself outside our window.

I watched it swing for two weeks.

Spinning in the wind, silent, an artifact of flight.

It's method was a piece of floss or some other nesting material

That held fast and squeezed tight.

Every morning, as I brought the box fan inside to close and lock the window above the fire escape

I saw it.

I watched it. 

For moments too long I hung on myself to the sway of the dead bird. 

Several days ago, it fell

The air was cleared.

Breathe easy.

But every morning,

I linger on the spot where string got caught

And flight turned to suffering, then stillness.