- after Brigid Pegeen Kelly
They found her, sitting in her favorite chair, readers askew, holding Pegeen Kelly’s “Song,” the pages dog-eared and smeared like child’s art. Others said the book had dropped to her lap, her arms raised in fear as if a night bird had startled her.
As a child, dusky dots painted the bridge of her nose. Always wanting to be held, she would feign cry and sleep, dots spread wide and dark from the salt. Games were all called beloved, as in let’s play how close will you hold me how long will you stay.
As a pullus, her dots became more faint, and she clung like a goat to the cliffs of who would have her. Are you my father? Are you my mother? Will you have me?
As an orphan, she found solace in currents and hoped a giant eye, peering from the blue, might see her heart adrift after the 99th reading
soft hands in the air as if bracing for impact a single, vibrant blue feather lodged in her heart
death by fluttering
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