Flesh dreamed monstrous
beasts. Dreamed somber, faceless
skeletons, splendid demons
of yesteryear, patient
Incredible beasts still
call, in the morning. But
only briefly, abandoning
Mama bird was first a baby bird herself. A fledgling, picking at bones brought to the nest. Mama’s Mama bird was an excellent hunter. Proficient collector of Nature’s provisions. And, not a scrap ever went to waste.
Want not, baby bird. Mama’s Mama bird was ever-squawking. Nature always provides.
Mama’s Mama bird taught her everything she needed to know. How to search and skulk. To lure. Catch.
Then, how to use. How to prepare. Preserve. Get to the bone.
The wait, Mama bird tittered, thumbing a bony groove, makes it earned. You’ll understand soon. Good things come to those baby birds who wait. Savory things.
Mama learned well how to wait. To be patient.
In dreams, she struck. Like the vultures she watched when Mama bird left the nest to stock up on reading materials.
Awake, she held her Mama bird’s bowl steady, the pound of the pestle harmonizing with another rhythmic beat in her young ears. She handed chips and fragments over for reading, performing her own in her head. Good thing Mama bird never touches me like she does the bone.
Blood older, she wove Mama bird’s ligaments for her, tight around the crone’s bony limb.
Tighter still around her flabby neck.
Mama’s Mama bird was a good teacher. Good provider.
Too good, perhaps. Or….
Perhaps, Mama bird should’ve read her bone better.
***I know I wasn’t supposed to add text to this task. My bad. The poem I was able to piece together though reminded me of a pieced-together–er, well not anymore–character and I just had to write. Hope it doesn’t take away from anything. You can read the poem and the proceeding narrative as separate pieces if you prefer ^.^ Kudos to Stephanie as well!***