napwrimo day no 8

 cock robin speaks from the grave

 

 

So much gets buried. The song, 

The worm. The soft feathered 

spring. We all lose our innocence 

 

as soon as the ground goes soft. 

Its muck and tumble. I was looking 

away when the nest unraveled 

 

and out fell a half dozen eggs, 

blue as the ocean. Before long the earth  

devoured them—little shell, little yolk. 

 

I broke my wing thrashing into 

the same window, the same time 

every March. I keep mistaking 

 

It for sky or the sea. Each time, 

the crunch of my bones a surprise 

as I crumble. But again, the next morning 

 

the same little teacup, the same  

high  note. Every mended bone  

longing again to be broken anew.   

 

To be shot clean through.