the thing is

there is a dead bird in my hands
it is dense and fetid and
I do not know where it lived before this.

it rests on my life line
like a kidney stone,
which I must miscarry

it has been dead for some time.
its feathers bristle dry and green
the way pine needles fall to the rug in January

I’d love to stay, actually,
but I’ve got a very important place to be,
quietly mourning this dead bird.

the despair of the bird does not reveal
itself to me.
I wonder if perhaps I brought it to death’s door,
whether to stuff it and hang it on the mantle, or
ferry it to the back porch in my mouth like an unabashed dog.

sadly I know nothing more
than that the bird’s fate and mine
are now ineluctably intertwined

(the bird is dead and it is in my hands)

I’d love to carry on with you, really,
but you cannot see, I’m carrying this dead bird.

and I want very badly to look to the clouds
and the shimmering sky and sing,
to let the great weight of my body float among the waves,
and to love the delicate arch of your being with mine

but I apologize,
I’ve got this bird to mourn.

Grace Rademacher is a Fulbright Research Scholar at the Democracy Institute in Budapest, Hungary. In May of 2022, she graduated from Georgetown University, where she studied Government and Spanish language and literature. She is a Boston-native, an avid runner, and very big fan of her dog.