A Dead Sparrow

While washing my face tonight, I noticed the flannel smelled of burnt wood, a scorched scent—even though it had been washed earlier. Remains of scented timber used for sacrificial rites. Patchouli. The odor lingers on my skin, along my jawline. My fingers.
We found a dead sparrow in the attic. Its lack of weight surprised the hands gathering its presence. An unexpected confirmation of its existence, its shadow bones. Fortunately Brendan was not home. We have skirted a full discussion about death one more time.
110/ Tonight he has nothing to say— so he says nothing, settling back into his quilt and bedding and wine-red sheets, slipping into a sense of another actuality, without denying the present history, the uncoiling facts of recent circumstances.
111/ Some nights he sleeps with the lights on in every room, the house bathed in a soft glow of evening, as wandering underwater, a full history of self layered overhead as he meanders through soft memories, fading recollections of the past few days, Repetitive weeks. Recycling months.


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