groan daughter, baby bird

slice feels like one of those words 

whose sound matches its description

I see this for the first time when I slice 

the soft flesh on the tip of my right index

and the inside of my left middle finger

and I feel

slice 

for the first time 

the way it was meant to sound 

the cut in my index is jagged

like the edge of the broken bowl,

pink porcelain, blood dripping into the sink 

                                           ont

     o the

plast

  ic ba

g 

  of frozen poultry

I was trying to drown the bird and the bowl just gave way

my father says I do not know my own strength

and I worry I never will

the cut arches like a child’s stilted stick figure seagull

it will not stop bleeding

I do not have bandaids

but I have plenty of tears 

my mother tells me of a Russian superstition

if you dream of the death of someone you love they’ll live a long life

I don’t know what it means that I keep dying in my dreams

it’s never really me, just [girl], some creature I can’t find the words for,

or someone meant to be the beloved

or the back of my best friend’s head

some symbol my brain invented with the lights off

the cells must know that death 

would be a sight too sore for me to witness

I’ve inherited the tears, 

those strange and violent dreams from my mother

In one disgruntled prophecy come decades too late,

she dreams she gives birth to a dead baby bird

cradles the miscarriage in her hands

the sparrow’s feathers dark and matted to the body 

drowned in blood

I listen quietly over the phone 

and wonder if the bird is my brother, or me 

my mother carries so much grief I will never know

the way she keeps it safe from me

the way she wipes my tears

and tells me dreams are just dreams

and there is so much more to be wary of

than what my brain invents with the lights off

my mother calls me the russian word for baby bird

these are the smallest animals, fit for sweet young things

sparrows, baby rabbits, fingerlings

animals small enough to fit in our hands

ones we still eat

there’s blood in my mouth 

and a hole in my cheek where I chewed through the side

my teeth are my worst enemy 

always biting off more than I can chew

grown girl, baby bird

grieving mother knows not to pluck the feathers 

snapped off in my brain

knows not to turn on the lights,

and lay the bird to rest

Ellie Mota is a writer and chatterbox from Southern Ontario finding her words, her footing, and her BA in Montreal. Catch her dancing in the grocery store and going uncharacteristically silent to eavesdrop on conversations for writing inspiration. Her creative nonfiction has appeared in yolk. and Ahoy. SQUID is her poetry’s first home.