The Nest

Katrina Kaye

Her eyes are open.
A thin trail of blood leaks from parted mouth.
Pink dress, brown flowers,
hiked around thighs.

curled on her side,
an imprint on soft grass.
One brown sandal clings to limp right foot,
the left, scratched and black bottomed.
She did run,
she did.

He cut the ice from her ears,
severed flesh of ring finger for special jewel
she would have willingly given.

Hand outstretched,
fingers curled,
nails chipped, split.
The other wrapped around belly,
hiding spliced skin.
Blood pools around body
an exposed secret.

A bird, fallen from nest
crushed underfoot.
Broken wings flailed in vain
bead black eyes screaming
louder than her voice ever could.

The nest couldn’t hold her.
Tender fluff of undeveloped feathers,
twisted neck and curled claws.

She lay still,
cicadas buzz in nearby trees.
The temperature is seventy-two.
Sun shines down on yellowing skin,
as a slight breeze brushes strands of hair
from the red slits which once held white stone.

“The Nest” is previously published in The Legendary (2013).