Sparrow

A shard of ancient glass still pricks my foot
since I passed underneath the window burst
by sparrow flight, as if the building put
itself into her path and wasn’t first
on this old street–predates by eighty springs
my birth, her egg. But in her jealousy
of robins’ breasts, of cardinal-bright wings,
she slit her throat on kitchen glaziery
and dyed down red. The tendrils of her blood
that traced the scratches in my iron sink
remain, despite my bleach, despite the flood
of soap and scrub. I’ve seen a sparrow shrink
from feathered warm to nonsense lines of brown,
and feel the glass in me that brought her down.

Now here’s an oldie but a goodie. Or at least a poem I’m very fond of. An oldie but a fondie? I’ll take it.

I’m testing sound files, and this is one of the few poems I’ve recorded myself reading. I think there are three others, but this is the shortest, so it’s the smallest file.

(Click on the title to play. Please let me know if it explodes.)

Edited to add: I’ve redone the recording. You can’t click on the title to play now, since the title isn’t linked. Click on the leetle arrow, instead. I hope the recording is a little clearer, though I nearly get tongue-tied a couple of times.