A sparrow flew through the open door
and broke its neck against the taupe walls.
I held it in my hands, eyes
blinking, body limp against the rough skin of my
palms. I placed it amongst ivy leaves in the back yard, its neck
bent backwards between cracks in the rocks. “Don’t
worry”, you said. “It’s just
a bird.” Just
as snow is only snow,
and skies are just a scattering
of light, and music doesn’t make the colors behind your
eyelids look brighter in the dark. You laugh when I tell you I’ve seen
ghosts sitting on the edge of my bed, and as you speak
to me about chemical reactions, I wonder if the cold piercing
through your jacket makes you think of standing under streetlights, snow
falling through the spaces between our lips, or just a simple
equation of air stealing heat from skin.
Shana Kennedy is a recent BA graduate of Indiana University of Pennsylvania. She is currently living abroad in England and working on gathering inspiration for her writing.