Friction

The phone was still hot against my ear

when I reached for the shelf.

I wanted a sound to match the way

the air was tightening in my chest.

The bird was a gift, heavy and smooth,

with eyes that looked like they knew a secret.

I swept it off with the back of my hand.

It didn't thud; it exploded.

Now there is a jagged empty space

where the ceramic used to sit.

I found the head under the radiator,

hollow and dusty,

still giving me that painted-on squint.