Bird bones crushed
by tire tread,
a toothpick frame
so delicate
burst like chalk,
stomped
into pavement.
These powdered remains-
a reminder
of how carefully
we all teeter
on the steep
precipice
of is
and was.
For flesh is soft
like butter
when it meets
sharp, pressing
silver, and
skeletons need
only one blunt bash
to shatter.
We’re all
stumbling glass,
stitched together
by straining threads
of ligament,
one tear away
from tatters.
Knowing this,
how do mothers cradle
their newborns
with anything less
than abject terror?
Is it profound
bravery,
or willful
ignorance,
that makes
an adept
carer?
pm poetry 