by Eliza Griswold
The dead bird you brought me,
head tucked under wing,
is proof, you say. I can’t tell
if you had a hand in her death,
or does a deeper comfort
come from holding her.
-from Wideawake Field
by Eliza Griswold
The dead bird you brought me,
head tucked under wing,
is proof, you say. I can’t tell
if you had a hand in her death,
or does a deeper comfort
come from holding her.
-from Wideawake Field