It came in through the front door
a dense, black body and paper wings crashing headlong
into the window screen above where I lay
Over and over he pounds on his prison
dumb to my quiet eye
What if I can save him, I think
I’d be so beautiful
A little god with red fingernails and a book on my chest
On the first try, I capture him loosely
delighting in the beast that beats like a heart
against the womb of my fist
I rise to free him on the porch steps
Flower petal fingers unfolding into sunlight
But he doesn’t fly…
The right wing is bent awkwardly and an eyelash foot flutters
Once
Twice
And then no more
Perhaps I am no god after all
Only a child holding on too tight
Sobriety Poet 