I Saw a Bluebird Once

Mama used to say bluebirds carry souls,
their wings inked with grief so old
it stained them beautiful. I didn’t believe her
until I saw one hanging
by the barbed wire behind the house,
its song gutted mid-note,
its feathers flayed open, brittle in the wind.

Mama wrapped it in a dish towel
and buried it under the oak tree.
She whispered something
as she pressed the dirt down with reddened hands.

At night, Mama talked to things that weren’t there—
an empty chair, shadows that didn’t move.
Once, I heard her ask
if they had come to take her back.
I didn’t ask where back was.
I was afraid she’d say my name.

Months later, the bluebird returned.
Not the same one, of course,
but Mama didn’t know the difference.

She sat on the porch, a cigarette burning low,
pointing at the bird on the fence.
“See,” she said, “He’s come to tell me it’s all right.”
That night, she left the window open,
said she wanted the air to taste like wings.
I watched her sleep, her breath shallow and stuttering,
her hands twitching like she was
pulling something out of the dirt.

The bird came back until the day it didn’t.
She said it had finished its work.

Mama used to say bluebirds carry souls.
Maybe one day,
I’ll ask whose it was.