Dirty fingers part the nylon nest
and search for life,
stroke a pair of minute spines,
checking the damp, unfeathered skin
for signs of breathing.
The jays lie lumped together, pink and raw,
wet dog food wedged in their beaks.
This time last year my son waded in the bay
with a busload of first graders,
gathering crab casings, gooey fish and
bright shells in buckets,
all floating and splashing in the sun,
while we parents stood knee-deep
and absentmindedly watched the shallows
for submerged heads and floundering limbs,
aware of the forces that drag children under,
that led two classmates
to a trailer where a man with tiny pupils
picked them apart like dark meat.
A year ago my son peeled off
his salty swaddling clothes
and spat at sorrow, vowed revenge,
strutted bravado, kicked our shins.
Now he weeps for his wee bird babes,
tosses dirt, reads aloud my bookmarked verse,
and redirects his gaze to the mountains.
About Sarah Carleton
