A wood pigeon whacks against the window,
a misjudgement of flight. My own body
balances on the edge of the bed,
moving is now a negotiation.
My throat is swollen with shock,
my insides do not feel lighter.
Four white squares are the key
to what is gone. I wake to searing heat
and a story about a medieval dungeon at 3am.
You can’t sleep. You want me to be who I was.
I can’t promise that but as we listen
to the birds breaking open the dawn,
their voices an Easter choir, a mini resurrection,
I think my skin is the shell of a brand new day.
Inside is a sky streaked with roses,
petals falling soft as rain. Feathers found,
wet with dew, in the long grass.