by Elizabeth Farrell
We have tried netting over the bushes;
a mesh canopy nailed on a wooden frame
to mark the boundary of where the birds
may not go. They flew in anyway.
Fluttering their wings in confusion
with blueberry in their beak, sometimes
they made it back to the free sky,
and other times their wings were caught.
We took pity and brought our fingers
to pry them loose, or saw too late
the silent hanging body and cut away the mesh
to release what remained of bone or feather.
Perhaps we should regret that we want
the dark purple sweetness to collect in numbers
at the bottom of our bowls, or have enough
to fill the crust of a pie shell.
We know we have our own confusion
about taking what we think is ours,
rustling the leaves to pull from the branches
what would have been only for the birds
had we not tried to construct this barrier
between us. So we've created a war
in a yard that might have mimicked Eden
had it not been for our appetites.
Elizabeth Farrell has a poem forthcoming in the anthology, The Chaos of Angels. She has published in numerous periodicals, been a copy writer, and worked in advertising in Chicago. She has been a teacher of creative writing in various schools in New England where she lives.
