The Bird

She’s a prize forager.
An assortment of beetle wings are arranged
like shiny badges under her bed.

Her meal worms have been freeze-dried with such care
that they twitch in the bowl
when resurrected with just a speck of water.

She smells of … preening oil, salt, top notes of earth.
My mother is turning bird.
This tiny, impossible thing

perched in my hand,
molecules exciting her eyes.
Then the soft click-click that unlocks

her humanity, she separates from the tips of my fingers,
hops to the gap in the window,
leaving complex glitter in my palm.