I.
One time, when I was still falling
in love with you, a bird hit
the front of the car we were in.
From the backseat, we laughed,
heckled the driver, asked where
the bird had gone. After stretching
hours, when we pulled into our
second home, we found the bird,
mangled, trapped in the iron mouth
of the car, an invasive predator.
They got it out with a pair
of kitchen tongs and oven mitts.
I wondered if you were squeamish
like me—if you started at the sight
of blood, hollow bones meant
for escape; if you would gnash
me between your teeth and feel me
sliding down your throat, stopping
laughter barely bobbing in the apple.
The bird traveled with us for hours,
and with me for years, and I
don’t know if you remember,
if you gave it enough respect to
look.
II.
One time, when I was forcing myself
out of love with you, I remembered
watching the bird, moments before
impact, hovering in the air, beating
hollow bones against the wind,
never moving an inch. Perpetually
fighting unseen foes, losing life
to one unexpected. When you
closed the door to my apartment,
I saw the mess of feathers and blood
and threw up, and I finally had my
answer: you did not have the decency
to stay, to see the wreckage, to face
the consequences. I haven’t moved
an inch, frozen in the same breath before
impact.
ABOUT:
Sara Amis is a senior at Auburn University, double majoring in English - Creative Writing and Psychology. She grew up in Hendersonville, Tennessee, and she's been writing since she could figure out how to use a pencil (or crayon, she supposes). She aims to combine psychology and creative writing to help herself and others understand themselves and the world. Her writing is often driven by her knowledge, interest, and passion for psychology, as well as her own observations. Sara is excited to share her work with you and can be found on Instagram @sara.amis.
EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING: Drake Elliott — The Bird That Hit Our Window
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