Two Ways

When I find a bird this morning
that's brained itself
against my window, I think:

Viewed sparrow by sparrow,
death's not so unattractive.

No crosswind disturbs a feather.
Bird feet like twin starfish
curl, still attached to motion.
Now that the twittering's stopped
and the head's uncocked,
I can look straight into those eyes
that shine, and bother me like bees.

But by afternoon, ants nibble
every crumb of eye, devouring
last images. An ooze fixes
one skewed wing to earth.

This is another death,
sparrow unbecoming sparrow.
The chest collapses
as black ants swarm the heart.

Copyright © 2005 Susan Cohen All rights reserved
from Backstroking
Unfinished Monument Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission