She sits in the empty room
Suddenly aware of how bare walls are greedy eaters
They leave the room hollow
She feels as if she is sitting in a ribcage
A bone picked carcus
She feels sick
Her friends came
Boxed her into several pieces and left one by the door
“return it or burn it” written on the side in thick black lines.
It has been weeks since that box fitted into this home
But even so she has not stopped moving it around
To this place and that.
On the fifty seventh day the bottom gives out
The floor is strewn with feathers
So many colours and shapes
At the top of this mountain of flight
A single piece of paper
Pinned by a blackbird feather.
She takes the word
And hides it for the rainy days
It always seems to grow brighter
Then she frames the feathers (every one)
It still is missing something
But she looks at the word
That that is ok.