For Jane

Published in The Long Arc of Grief (Finishing Line Press 2019)

I.

This morning, a sparrow flew in.
A moment’s misdirection,
an open door mistaken for sky.

She hit the bay window trying to escape,
fell stunned, terrified,
lay opening her beak in mute distress.

And I could not help but think of you,
even though you were right there,
already showing us how to save her— 

lifting the cloth from the breakfast table,
bringing its sides together between your open hands
as gently as if the bird were already there in its folds,

while the rest of us hesitated.
So much life,
contained in so fragile a container.

But you would not do it yourself,
explained that you could not,
the signals from eye to brain to hand too slow.

What a thing, I thought,
to have the words
to explain one’s damaged self. 

II.

That afternoon, driving the Old Coast Road,
we stopped for a snake
basking in the caked and rutted tracks.

Whether frozen in fear,
or transfixed by the taste of our dust
on its flickering tongue, it did not move. 

You stepped from the car and clapped your hands.
But instead of slithering off,
it turned toward you.

You stepped back in surprise, but did not waver.
No, you bent toward the shimmering coil
and clapped again, 

insisting on saving her,
even though she wanted none of it.
And I think, it is not in you to do anything else. 

Finally, she weaved her way to the side of the road
and up the steep bank, her long, striped body
a sudden mad zipper in the cracked earth. 

III.

On our return, we went straight to
where we had laid the cloth
in the shade of the alders.

Relieved, we found it empty—
not a bone or feather.
No sign of a cruel end. 

A day of small rescues, I thought.
But as dusk fell, and
we drank wine in the darkening room,

you began, calm and matter-of-fact,
in the voice I have imagined
you used with your patients.

How you had researched which subway stations were best—
where the trains come in the fastest,
the end would be swiftest.

And how you finally decided you could not.
Not for yourself, but for Jim who sits so still beside you.
For your daughters who need you.

And I understood for the first time
this greatest of rescues
as you slowly return to us.