Bluebird

With its neck

folded in on itself at the wrong angle, so pitiful and

in my hand, in a cardboard box

I’m laughing so hard that you can see my crooked teeth, and I can’t stop

thinking about the bed I’ll wake up in tomorrow, the dark oak frame

in another state, headed back to 

before electricity, before that spark in your eye

us delicate things, always coasting on the wind

I can angle my feathers in spite of the weather 

I’m sorry the dog brought you down to the dirt

And sorry if the car ride is bumpy, 

out here

everything is 

I will leave you with this–

each beat of your dime sized heart will

make a symphony for the rest of us, even after 

I’ve dug a hole for you, even after

you are cold in the clay. 

When I unbuckle my suitcase on someone else’s farm, 

I’ll think of you

and migration

and all the blue and soft things

and my grandmother’s eyes

and her mother’s poetry

and how each breath you can’t take

is one that you gave me. 

About the Author

Haylie Jarnutowski is a Senior Creative Writing and History student. Her main art forms are fiction, poetry, digital art, and textiles. In her fiction work, she explores the reanimation of history, while her poetry focuses upon observation of the modern world. Find more of her work at hayliebellewrites.wordpress.com