Elegy for a Bird by Alice Lander

The sour smell of damp attic & the sleeper too small
for the three of us on it, our father between us & one set
of legs loose & bicycling over bed edges,
the hour of storytelling, of Huck Finn when
we were much too young for that & Little House
on the Prairie & Robinson Crusoe & the Epic of Gilgamesh
& January wading through snow, nose sharp
with fresh metal scent & boots filling up, feet
fleeced in socks bought from Caldor's before
it closed & summer ice pops from Shop-rite in bright
neon tubes & grassy stomach & the baby bird
we tried to save dead in a shoebox, left overnight in the cold
garage as autumn rolled in & the wood-worn door
to your bedroom where I sat some nights
listening for clues you were there, & loved me,
scavenging for love,
four-foot-three & fixed on the still glass knob, limbs
tucked tight in footie pajamas as dawn came
teal & strange in our square suburban yard & how,
suddenly, the scythe of the moon became a real danger.



Alice Lander lives in Jersey City, New Jersey with her husband, cat and growing plant collection. Her poetry has appeared in Eunoia Review and Prometheus Dreaming.