I was reading about death
when she hit the front window.
Her last notes Wagnerian
percussion performed with force.
Smudge of impact
on one pane of glass
beside child-sized handprint
reaching out from inside.
Dropping drizzle gathered on
feathers, as the internet debated
warming her stunned form
to bring about a resurrection.
This turdus philomelus makes
sweet music we’re told. No
recognition of the high-pitched
grate of so many of her notes.
Or that Philomela had her tongue
cut out – silenced; as father
cannibalised sons in a horror
show of jealousy and rage.
My mother, no-nonsense
as always, plucks the remains
aloft with fire tongs, grips tail
feathers and with one big toss
lands it out of sight.
Sarah O’Connor lives in London where she works backstage in theatre & opera. Originally from the West of Ireland, her work can be found in Abridged, Bangor Literary Journal, Broken Spine, Green Ink Poetry, Ink Sweat & Tears, Shooter, and anthologies from Fly on the Wall Press and Victorina Press.
More work by Sarah O'Connor
Tel: 028 7126 6946
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