I’d jump if there were anywhere to fall;
Any ground to land on.
The grass between my fingertips
is the wing of a bird on its nest;
And my touch is a threat;
And it will fly;
And its young will die.
But what if I take it home?
What if I sow its seed in my soil?
What if my own wings part,
and beat,
And to jump becomes to swoop;
And to fall becomes to fly?
In this building of nurses insisting I press the bell and let them help, the panic attack plays through without witness.
A midnight delivery scares the birds out of the trees and into the sky; free and flying and soon they will be calm.
Another minute passes. Another moment closer to morning. Another cry down the hallway from a man who doesn’t know what morning is.
La Gatita Oscura 