I Clean Up by Linda Laino

I Clean Up

the bodies fallen

from the nest, grumbling

to avoid the anguish

of seeing them featherless,

twitching on the terra-cotta.

I search for the mother

flapping inconsolably

perhaps confused,

flying in circles.

But she is unlike the mother

yesterday on the news

telling the world

how a three-year old sounds

when he hits the floor

with a bullet—hard—

like the birds, no.

The swallow sings on,

the lark in her voice

coupled with enviable chores,                   

carefree flight.

Her head is as blue

as a summer delphinium.

With a mother’s heart

I consider the woman

across the world

and how from now on

she will daily cup her own

gray face in the shape

of her now permanent grief.

Last year I lodged

toddlers on my terrace,

two survivors I checked too often,

hiding inside the drainpipe

behind pink geraniums

their beaks still forming, not quite

naples not quite cadmium

but smiling with trust

like a baby-anything would do.

Linda Laino is a visual artist, and writer who earned an MFA from Virginia Commonwealth University. She has been a waitress, a textile conservator, teacher and flower farmer, all in service to a lifetime of art-making. Her paintings and poems often talk to each other and she loves finding beautiful things on the ground.  www.lindalaino.com