Mended

The box was marked "Kitchen" in a hand

that didn't shake as much as it does now.

Something rattled against the cardboard,

a hollow, sharp sound like a bone clicking.

I peeled back the yellowed Gazette

to find a bluebird made of cold clay.

Its wing was a mess of amber glue,

a jagged ridge of epoxy where the tail

hit the floor and didn't quite make it back.

Whoever fixed it had thick fingers

and a desperate need for things to be whole.

The bird is flying at a crooked angle now,

frozen in a dive it wasn't meant to take.

I put it on the windowsill

where the light shows every crack.