from The Startled Heart

A starling with no feet
eats at my table: a few crumbs, dried cranberries.

Where does it get me,
my foolish pity?

Intentional or not, you stepped
in death's way.

A bone-white edge, the near perfect
fit of broken things.

Too late for lessons now. A blackbird spoke
because you asked.

It's hope that does me in: the place
the voice breaks.

What's left? A kind of grace:
a perilous landing.

Copyright © 2003 Eve Joseph All rights reserved
from Margie
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission