Dead Sparrow by Michele Pizarro Harman

Dead Sparrow
after Bernhard

Doll One and Doll Two lean
over it,
the ruched form

as large
to them,
tiny as they are,

as an infant doll might be
but made of feather,
bone.

+

Their rimpled dirndls
drape them,
those of

no beak-
worn dreams,
the well of sympathy

+

so deep
for these
who know

no growth,
no death,
no need

for this straw hat
which only blocks
the sun

+

to remind them
of it
and of each thing

which belongs
to time,
their own hands

untouched
by the clock’s
and its

monstrous spin,
their wells of love
filling

for all things,
particularly for those like
their sparrow,

+

for those
unlucky enough not
to share

their plicatile,
their diastolic
stasis.

—Michele Pizarro Harman