by Jasmine Janelle Royer
I wonder if the Father Cardinal
pondered death upon his encumbered flight-
laden with sorrow like the gold of a king-
back to his mother‘s nest after all
his years of rearing to winged babes;
which one could not forget, a heavy plight.
If the pain fluctuated like a stroke
beneath the cherry-red of his wide bosom,
knowing the older babe caught her breath
and choked, thinking of her hope
leaving on the morrow, while despair
and depression blossomed.
Her mother’s blue feathers hit her
in an image. One quite forlorn, she
envisioned their nest, deep rouge and bitter.
Felt her holes widen like ulcers upon
her wings as they had been flooded
with scorn.
And by this time the Father Cardinal arrived.
And I, the older babe, wailed, not cried.