Don't Name Them
Oh, sacrificial birds whatever makes you beautiful. Don’t name them for they will go pale-combed and blue-cheeked, lights out, golden blinks to frozen flight. Here, she lies. And when they die in January you will not be able to part the Earth. No one will receive them and they can never be warm and peckish again. It is practice. The quiet friendship of a beaked bosom. Such solace in loving against the clamor of children. That bottomless tumbling inside and gone. I know to bathe my pets before they pass. That God, he whispers dignities into my ears and I do my best to wash away my shortcomings. Sorry, I’m not a more natural mother. Sorry, it’s harder than it should be. Of course, she had A Name.



I’m so sorry ❤️🩹