She came to my window one day chirping.
Her song was sweet and innocent.
She had a broken wing, so I took her in. We would eat together, laugh together, sing together, all day. I nursed her in her sickness and I dreamt with her in health.
Her feathers were glossy and her eyes keen. She would have only the finest bird seed, and the most gilded cage.
When she could fly again, she would go out singing at night. She’d fly back in the morning all covered in god knows what.
I’d wash her in the bathtub, gently and with care.
She was a wild thing. My pigeon.
I didn’t like her going out without me there. Who knew what predators were out at night. I built a crate for her. Gold and sparkling, spacious and cozy, clean and warm. How could she be unhappy?
She was so beautiful, my pigeon.
She grew restless. Her feathers ruffled, and her voice wavered. I grew angry with her and demanded her attention.
Are you alright, my pigeon?
Her voice had gone silent. She would not sing for me.
I opened the cage and held her small body. I wanted to hear her again. I wanted her to be with me again. But she stayed silent. Her bead eyes glossy and vacant.
I squeezed her harder not even realizing that
her little bird bones were cracking
her little bird lungs were collapsing,
and her little bird heart was breaking.